Dog Pack of War
by Pixo
Summary: The howls of war roll across the lands of Lone Star. The men and women of the Coalition States wage war for the sake of mankind and at their side trot the fearsome hounds of the Emperor - the Dog-Boys.
1. Prologue

**(Disclaimer**: I own none of the rights to Rifts or Rifts/Palladium trademarked & copyrighted material. The original characters, however, are mine. This story is for entertainment only.**)**

**(****Author Note**: Originally posted October 09, as of January 10 the story now has gone through a major re-editing process. Hopefully, the grammar has been cleaned up and the story made tighter. I hope it's still enjoyable. I plan to continue with the story, ten chapters are planned in total, or about 40,000+ words. Wish me luck.

Big thanks to Mojo Arrogance and Sergio Frazetta for their reviews. The open, frank reviews of people who read their story, is the best treat a part-time, half-hearted writer can receive. Cheers, boys! -Pixo.**)**

**~ O ~**

**In the Beginning**

_The world of Earth is no more. A great apocalypse sundered that world. Nuclear death brought on by belligerent and arrogance nations. Billions died in the atomic firestorms, the great cities of Man were laid waste. History for Man should have ended at day._

_However, something unexpected happened. Many scientists, mystics, hippies, luminaries, and crack-pots claimed that humans were powered by an internal life-energy. At death that energy fled from the body, flowing into the great aether beyond mans understand. When the death of so many happened simultaneously, the energy released was so great it tore holes in the very fabric of reality. The result was a world rocked to it foundations. Its history irrevocably altered. The oceans rose, greedily swallowing the lands, adding to the death toll; earthquakes leveled what cities remained standing; magic – an energy-force not understood – saturated the lands. _

_Great holes, Rifts, opened up, and out came beings from a thousand different worlds. Some wishing to claim this magic-rich world for themselves._

_For hundreds of years Man struggled to survive the mayhem following the apocalypse. Some turned to technology, some to magic; some turned to gods, some to demons. The lands reshaped themselves, reverting to their original state, or morphing into something new and alien under the influence of the newly arrived dimensional beings. _

_A collection of survivors inhabited the remains of a once great city, they called their home Chi-Town. With unearthed technology and through trial and tribulation, fire and death, they overcame and survived. They formed a community ruthlessly dedicated to human supremacy and violently opposed to magic. They joined with other like minded nation-states, creating a confederation of city-states called the Coalition States. _

_The Coalition States legions of black-armored warriors march and war to regain lands they believe rightfully belong to them. The lands of their ancestors. The lands of Man._

_The world of Earth is no more. Now, it is the land of Rifts._

**~ O ~**


	2. Hounds Unleashed

**Chapter 1**

**Hounds Unleashed**

**~ O ~**

_North-West Lone Star State,  
Local pacification & administration duty provider - Wash Command, 10__th__ Regiment  
June, 102 P.A._

Windward was a small town for a few hundred souls in the wild and untamed lands west of Lone Star. Built of heavy sand/gravel blocks the buildings where like small forts. Dust blow through the empty streets and the sound of heavy boots echoed off the walls. Angry rapid dog barks where heard throughout the town, also the popping/zipping sound of gunfire, the boom of explosions and the mechanical squeal of grinding tracks. War had come to Windward.

Calls of 'clear' echoed over the comm-link. The house was secure. They had entered through the backdoor and swiftly swept through the first and second floors and onto the roof. He knew his team was setting up security where they had a clear view of the square in front of the house. He could already hear the whip-crack of laser rifle fire as his team got to work.

Taking a risk and leaning out the front door Sergeant Major Nix of the Coalition States Army took a quick glance out. He was not impressed with the scene before his deaths-head motif helmet. One of his fire-teams had tried to get across the square and ran into an ambush with more and more shooters opened up from multiple angles very few seconds. The standard operating procedure was to find a house and secure it, and wait for help to arrive. At the rear of the square stood a fortified house with high walls and a heavy gate, a perfect place to set up.

However, as they unsuccessfully tried to blast open the gate, armed only with small arms and grenades, the fire-team found themselves pinned against the outer wall. The incoming fire was murderous. Two bodies lay unmoving and at least two others clutched wounds, howling. The rest where panicking.

"Right," he said, and ducked back inside.

There was only one way to save this debacle from turning into a complete disaster. He turned and sized up the troopers around him. Each and everyone them were Dog Boys. Dog boys, officially called Psi-Hounds by the powers of the Coalition States, but just dog boys by the common people, were dogs given the shape and intelligence of man while retaining all the natural abilities of canines. This included their superior sense of smell and hearing, instinctive hunting nature, and their greater strength, speed and endurance. Dog-boys were the perfect shocktroopers. They were also cheap to create in lab and considered expendable animals.

**~ O ~**

Dog boys were near slavishly loyal to their human masters and serviced with almost no thought to self. As humans and canines had been living and surviving side by side for almost all of man's history - long before the horse was domesticated or the cat allowed humans to serve them – it came naturally to the mutant dogs to continue the service of man's-best-friend. Nearly all thought it was a great honor to serve and protect humans. Hundreds of thousands had been grown in vats or breed in closely monitored nurseries and most would die in the heat of battle following their closely held belief.

**~ O ~**

"Corporal Roman your team holds here … I want those shooters ducking, you hear. Hold nothing back!" He held up his hand suddenly, listening to his ear piece. Shaking his head he continued, "The tracks have been rerouted. Private First Class Red, you and your team are with me. We rush to gate. Alcala, blow the gate with your blast-block. We secure the yard and house, moved the wounded inside. Once we've secured the yard, Roman's team will join us. Understood?" The Dog-Boys barked their understanding traditionally, two quick barks.

Nix gripped his C-27 tightly and said, "Right, stack up on Red … on my word. Go! Go! GO!"

The man and five Dog-Boys raced from the house while the rest of the team emptied e-clip after e-clip at any and all targets around the square. For a moment the enemy fire stopped. The half decimated ambushed team took the reprieve to back off and started to return to house from which Nix and his fire-team were emerging. "Turn around, back! Go back!" Nix yelled as they sprinted towards the gate. The Dog-Boys wheeled around unsure of where to go, but a few stray shoots from a shooter encouraged them to run after their commander.

Alcala, a smart, highly-skilled German Sheppard, raced straight for the gate, the heavy fusion charge held close to his chest. The others took positions along the walls, or over the bodies laying on ground, shielding them from the blast to come. Nix found himself staring into the dead eyes of Corporal Lando. Lando's death was real loss to his team, as talented a non-commissioned officer as he was. In the short time it took for Alcala to set the charge, Nix thought about who he was going to have to promote.

He had to balance the strength his team with the hierarchy of the pack. Nix commanded First-Team, Fort Wash Company, Tenth Regiment, 4th Army at Lone Star. First-Team was normally forty Dog-Boys strong and made up of tough veterans. One either became a veteran, or a body bag, quickly out in the lonely isolated wilds of north Lone Star.

He figured that Red was next in line for a promotion. The big-chested boxer was not the most talented of his troops. However, he ranked high in the pack pecking order and with some mentoring he would learn that there are often better ways to do things then to attack problems head-on. He did have one key factoring working in his favor, the right attitude; he was a hard-one. Red it was, he thought as a fearsome blast rolled over him. He could feel the heat of the explosion through his matt-black armor. Getting to a knee and twisting around he saw the gate blasted open, "Secure the compound!" he bellowed. Even before making sure the yard was secure he humped Lando's corpse onto his shoulder and lumbered into the compound's yard.

Lowering Lando gently to the ground, Nix watched as the beefy bulldog Oak shoulder the door open and stand aside as Eloy tossed in a fragmentation grenade. Smoke and fire blasted open of the door and Oak, Eloy, Red and a half-dozen more stormed in howling, weapons blazing.

"Roman, get over here!" He ordered over the comm. "You three," pointing to the nearest dogs, "cover fire for Corporal Roman. Fabian, get that heavy-hitter up and killing."

Fabian, a massive Saint Bernard, holstered his pistol and unslung a bulky rail-gun from his back and laid himself down at the corner of the demolished gate. He propped up the rail-gun on its bi-pod and slipped his goggles down over his eyes. Moments later lethal spike-shaped rounds fired at an incredible velocity were roaring into any targets. The damage done to building was thoroughly amazing to behold, and if the rounds hit a body, there was usually very little left with which to gauge. The noise of the weapon itself was painful, simultaneously a deep booming and a piecing whine.

After Roman's team entered the compound at a run, Nix pulled Igual aside and pulled the hand-set off the portable radio unit strapped to the handsome golden retriever's back. He plunged a cable from the set into his own comm unit, connecting himself to the more powerful unit, "Wash two, Wash two this is Wash four."

"Go ahead Wash Four," came the reply.

"Where are the tracks? Give me a sitrep!"

"Wash Four, Wash One shifted tracks north of your position..." there was brief wash of static and Nix knew he was cut off while Wash Two handled another communication. Nix looked up and saw a small dark figure hovering five hundred feet above the battlefield, he scowled but waited.

**~ O ~**

While he waited he took stock of his situation, noting the combat positions of his team, his unit strength, estimating how much ammo they had left. In particular he noted the sound of battle still coming from the house, he whistled, "Roman! Send half your team around to secure the rear of the house. Get in there with the rest and get that damned house cleared." The skinny greyhound sorted his team and got them moving.

"Wash Four, orders are to hold position," came the order over the comm. "Wash One is inbound with the heavies."

"Copy that Wash Two. Wash Four out."

For half an hour Nix used the fortified house as a base of operations to send out packs of dog boys on sorties into neighboring houses and buildings. Clearing out the immediate vicinity was crucial to secure a foothold in Windward. Half an hour later the sound of battle had cleared as the squeal of four tracked CS Mark IX EPCs rolled into the town square before the house.

Nix had occupied a large ground floor room as his operations centre. Though Nix had the bodies of the previous occupant dragged out, the stink of laser discharge and grenade smoke was heavy in the room. The wounded were brought it. Ban, a small aggressive terrier, was not an officially trained field medic but he acted as first-team's doctor when out on operations. He managed the wounded with a commanding presence – fussing and barking orders at the wounded and all but ordering them to get better.

Nix was sitting at Igual's radio listening to the on-goings and directing his clearance fire-teams when Coster poked his muzzle into the room, "Sergeant Major, the Captains 'ere." With a quick wave of his hand he had Igual monitor the radio and he exited the room.

Outside in the yard lingered another pack of dog-boys, hovering around Captain Arnold Hand. He was without his helmet, heavy wrinkles around eyes and his grey hair cut close to the scalp. He waved Nix over to him, nodding, "Sergeant Major, what's the good word?"

Giving a quick salute, he said, "Sir, I've got four teams on search and destroy sorties, we'll have the south-east sector locked down in another quarter hour. I've got four KIA's, including Lando, and twice that in wounded. What of the rest of the town?"

"Lando, damn…" He shook his head, "The sections north of here to the center of the town are secured. Causalities have been light. Most of the remaining residents have been killed, though I managed to capture four dozen, locked them up in a storehouse, they're being watched by Ungar." He paused briefly, looking around the laser-bolt ridden courtyard, "Most fled when they were given the chance."

Nix thought about the chance they were given.

**~ O ~**

Four hours before Hand arrived with over a hundred human soldiers and dog-boys troopers, rolling to stop at the outskirts of town just before sunrise. He had used the darkness to cover the dust plumes created by his vehicles. The town never saw him coming.

Hand had the town council summoned to him. As they arrived his said, "This is your third and finally chance. Emperor Prosek has requested that you either answer his call to join with the States or face the consequences of your actions." The town senior made to reply but Hand halted him, "furthermore, you are turnover over any practitioners-of-magic, mutants, aliens and wanted criminals of the Coalition States. You are to collect all illegal or contraband materials in the centre hall for disposal. A list of proscribe material was presented to you at our first meeting."

The town elder cried, "But Mr. Captain sir, we cannot! The council has voted that they wish to maintain our independence. Mr. Captain, I hope you can understand and respect our wishes. We wish no hard feeling with your Emperor."

The Captain frowned, "You have three hours to reconsider your decision. After that, you will be given no more chances. When you have made your decision you can find me here," He said and gestured to the armored vehicles and armed warriors nearby.

The implication was not lost on the elder. He was never seen again. He wasn't the only one. Within an hour dozens of families were fleeing the town, heading further west, away for the Coalition State's sphere of influence. Though many remained behind; determined to fight the Emperor's 'Deadboys' in their jet-black armor and grim skull-faced helmets, using the time they were given to hunker-down for the fight to come.

When the three hours were up the town council, much reduced now, reconvened with Captain Hand, "Well?" the officer asked.

A trembling young man said, "No, sir. We will not bow to your Emperor!"

"Brave words do not correct stupid choices, young man. Wait here." He returned to the tracked transports and talked quickly to another man, who stood, waved his hands in the air and jogged south, a line of matt-black armored dog boys trotting after him. The Coalition officer returned to the town council, with a dozen armed and armored dog boys snarling at his back.

He looked the young man over and said, "You should have run when you had the chance." With that, he drew out his laser pistol and shot the youth in the face. The others turned to run but were quickly gunned down.

**~ O ~**

The old officer and the older NCO returned to Hand's command EPC, _Bighand_ stenciled on the side, and started working on finishing the assault on the town, they had a map of the town spread out on a wall mounted table. "Wash Two, get down here," ordered Hand over the radio.

A few moments later with a swoosh of air and a blast of street dust a SAMAS landed near the rear ramp of the EPC. A towering suit of power armor eight feet tall with a ten foot wingspan, the wings lowering to its side with a light hiss of hydraulics. The large engines mounted on the back and shoulders _tinked_ as they cooled. The armor exuded menace with a skull-like helmet, matt-dark coloring and huge rail-gun gripped in its right hand. With its left hand it unclasped the helmet and passed to a nearby dog boy. Wash Two was the codename for first lieutenant Ronald Harper and he was brown-skinned, dark-haired and shifty looking. He saluted the captain with an armored hand nearly as large as his head, "Sir."

"Harp, what have you got?"

Harper leaned his large torso into the interior of the EPC, turned the map the others were examining around, and started tapping over various notes and features, "Here, here, here, and here I have noted weapon flashes, though, here and here have been overrun with in the last few minutes by Bluebird's teams through I don't know yet if the shooters have been killed or driven away, sir."

Hand motioned for the communication operator of the Bighand to get in touch with Bluebird.

"Also," Harper continued, "I've been in contact with elements of Fort Deep, Captain Dale's two platoons had arrived, they swung around and have begun assaulting the western approach to the city, sir."

"Good, we'll need Dale's dogs if we are to secure this town properly." He said, "Nix I want you keep this port of entry open. You're to leave a squad here. Keep this house as rally point Alpha, I'll begin having the wounded ferried here. Now that Dale has entered the town, I want you to head east and try to establish contact." His armored finger tapping and drawing directions on the map, "Harper direct Sergeant Bluebird's teams to assist Nix's advance. Once contact is made, swing north. I'll return to Ungar and precede north-west."

"Wouldn't that leave the north-east as a getaway corridor?" Harper asked.

"It will, and I want them to take it. I want to drive them OUT of this town, not having them bedding-down for weeks to come where we have to dig them out with grenades and a shit-shovel."

Both Harper and Nix nodded, that would unpleasant and deadly work. Hand continued, "Harper, keep us right, their numbers are still uncertain but they seem to lack any airborne forces, which makes you a real asset here."

"Of course, sir, I'll shout if I see anything you should know about."

"Might I suggest you also keep the damned snipers off us," Nix said.

"I'll do what I can, Sergeant Major. But I can't be everywhere at once."

"You could try," Nix sneered, but both men laughed. They had been serving together for nearly five years, five hard years in the wastes of greater Lone Star, and though Nix had a dozen years more active service then Harper, both men had earned each other's respect the hard way – through the fires of war.

"If you two are done making out, can we finish this operation sometime soon?" Hand cut in, shooing them out.

"Yes, sir," Both of other men chorused.

Nix exited the EPC and Harper retrieved his helmet, both gave quick salutes to the captain as half-a-dozen dog-boys filed into the vehicle. They heard him roar, "Skaklad, get this bucket of bolts moving!" as the ramp was shutting.

**~ O ~**

After a brief knuckle-tap, Harper clasped on his helmet and took the skies, to oversee the destruction of the town with a bird's eye view. Nix returned to his command centre. He stood for a moment, hands on hips, then ordered Igual to get a status report on the hunter-teams, and recall any unengaged units. He turned and received a report from Ban regarding the wounded, "Two aren't good sir. We'll need to get them evaced, quickly sir."

Nix shook his head, "Make them comfortable, more on the way. This post has just become Alpha rally, the wounded are going to begin arriving. I want you in charge of all the wounded that come in. Don't take bark-or-bite from any dog boy. I'll leave Coster …" he paused for a moment then shouted out the door, " ... Coster, you just got promoted to Private First Class!" then he continued talking to Ban, "Coster with four troopers to watch the perimeter and you can pick two troopers as orderlies. Be quick."

"I'll take Pyo and Tito, sir."

Nix nodded to Igual to find the two dog boys, then noticed Red sitting in the corner, his muzzle wrapped in a blood soaked cloth, "Red?"

The boxer scrambled to his feet, "Got me face cut open, sir, it's no thang really. But Ban says I got to sit the rest of this one out."

The little terrier snarled at the much bigger and boarder boxer, "Damn right, Red. You sit your ass right there! I still need to stitch you. You keep talking I might mistakenly stitch your mouth shut!"

"Can you fight?" Nix asked Red.

The boxer gave two quick barks.

"Nothing doing, Ban. I need Corporal Red in fighting condition in fifteen minutes. Patch him quick as you can."

Red's wounded face glowed with delight at hearing his promotion, the unsaid praise behind the elevation. The medic had finished collecting his kit when Pyo and Tito walked in, Ban snarled at the two pointers, "Hold him down, this is going to hurt."

**~ O ~**

Nix left the room and headed upwards, looking for Roman. He found the dalmatian patterned greyhound squatting in a corner on the roof, his eye pressed to the scope of his non- issue, non-Coalition JA-12, scanning.

Nix took to one knee next to him, "See anything?"

"Some, sir. I spotted a target six hundred meters west, lost it to the shadows. I'm waiting for it to reappear," Roman had a soft, deep voice.

He was older than most of the other dog boys, having turned twenty years old last month. Most dog boys start military service at age six or seven and do to their willingness to serve their human masters and the general view of the high command that they are nothing more than smart animals, war isn't kind to them. Many didn't last past their tenth year.

Roman bore the weight of those hard-years in the looks of his blue eyes. While psi-hounds did not suffer emotions the same way humans, they did suffer nonetheless. All soldiers suffer emotion distress, it is part-n-parcel of the job, but as a military resource, it was more important how quickly they recovered. For dog boys the rejuvenating effects ingrained in pack socialization and support meant they rarely suffer the extremes of emotion for long. A few days R&R with some playful chasing or light hiking was usually enough to wash away the worst of depressions.

A loud, harsh howl tore though the building, followed by a series of whimpers. Though Roman's eye never left the scope, his eyebrow raised questioningly, Nix saw and said, "Ban's in a right mood today and he's sewing Red's face shut."

Roman snorted, "That's gotta sting … a moment, sir." His intensity increased and he leaned forwards slightly, breathed out, held his breath and pulled the trigger. The JA-12 spat a bolt of concentrated light that super-heated the air with whip-snap sound.

He reached up with his left hand, his none trigger hand, and touched his com-link and whisper to Igual, "Com-op. Confirmed kill, five-eight-zero meters west. Near the big tree. Other hostiles spotted and scattering."

Nix pulled out his binoculars and panned around to where Roman had shot. He knew that Igual would be relying the latest enemy movements to the hunter-teams. They would quickly move into the area and begin hunting and killing.

That's were dog-boys excelled. Stalking along using all their fearsomely powerful senses of hearing and smell and motion sensitive eyes to find their prey, then using their greater than human speed, strength and endurance they would pounce and more often than not, tear their foe apart. Though dog-boys had powerful jaws, the use of fangs as weapons were frowned upon and it was trained out of them at an early age, though they nipped each other with regular frequency. Most could not resist the call to move in close to kill, therefore all dog-boys were experts with the long vibro-knifes and forearm claws they all carried.

Near a big tree lay an unmoving dark figure, "Good shooting."

"Thank you, sir."

"I'll be rallying First-Team in fifteen minutes, we're headed thataway," Nix said, pointing towards the body, "until then keep an eye out."

Roman nodded slightly, "Sir."


	3. Tunnel Dogging

**Chapter 2**

**Tunnel-Dogging**

******~ O ~**  


Descending into the house Nix took a few minutes to get off his feet, finding an empty bedroom with a chair and table. Light from the window streamed across the table, dust motes floating in the air. Laying his C-27 on the table, he plopped down in the chair, and swung his heavy boots on the table with a deep thud. He disconnected and pulled off his helmet. It was still before noon and day was already hot, Lone Star summers were famous for being blistering and muggy. Nix had a handsome, hard, mean face – the kind of face the Coalition States used on their recruiting posters to entice young men to join up.

He spat on the face-plate and dusted the grit off with his armored hand. The stylized skull face, and the slightly elongated skull which marked him as an NCO, stared back – emotionless and terrifying, the embodiment of the Coalition's will. Emblazoned on the forehead a skull and lightning bolt logo – he patted his helmet affectionately.

He put the helmet next to his rifle and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head, grunting with pleasure as his spine and shoulders popped. He noticed his armor, standard issue CA-1 heavy body armor. Eighteen pounds of computer controlled fully environmentally enclosed super-alloy, matt-black and grim. The script painted on his armor was blood red; on the left chest-plate was his individual unit marker– _4_, on both upper arms where his rank indicators, four red chevrons below a upward facing triangle. On his right shoulder was 10th regiment's badge, a stylized X with a skull set at the cross point, and on the left shoulder the symbol of the coalition armed forces, a skull set in a red background. The armor had saved his life many time over the last twenty-two years, was dirty and dusty, particularly his boots. He rooted through his pouches and pulled out a small rag and wiped as much of the dust off as he could manage. He would have to wait until they returned to Fort Wash to give it a proper cleaning.

Most of his dog boy troopers wore the psi-hound standard issue DPM-101, though some of the NCO's wore modified CA-2 light body armor. Regardless of which type they wore all had three letters - _PSI_ - emblazoned on the left chest plate, the badge of the 10th on the right shoulder guard and the Dog Pack badge all dog boys wore on the left. An upraised howling canine face with a spiked collar.

Do the anatomical difficulties presented by dog boys, their armor had no helmets nor provided any of the advantages of fully environmentally sealed armor, mostly offering protection from gunfire and hand-to-hand combat. As more of a stylistic motif then an actual weapon, the DPM-101 had diamond hard spikes on the forearm guards, shoulders guards and knees pads – gimmick or not getting into a tussle with an angry man-sized mutant canine wearing DPM-101 body armor was a sure fire way of having a bad day.

Symbolize was taken seriously by the Coalition. The use of skulls, weapons, and other signs of power were deliberate. They evoked a sense of power in the soldiers and a sense of dread in the enemies of the Coalition States.

Tucking his rag away, he took up his rifle. Twelve pounds heavy and bulky to handle the C-27 Heavy Plasma Cannon was coveted for its dependability and damage capacity. Though short on payload and lacking the range of either the more common C-12 or the C-14, the plasma cannon packed a massive punch, and in Nix's expert hands he could take down almost any armored man-size target with a few shots. Targets without the protection of super-alloy armor were disintegrated from the heat of the plasma. He had even rendered a few light tanks and APCs inoperable in his long and bloody career as a footslogger for Emperor Prosek.

He checked the scope, making a few minute adjustments. He checked the energy load. It was about half-full. He replaced it with a fully charged e-canister. He carried an extra eight e-canisters on the black leather combat webbing that wrapped about his chest, waist and thighs – along with all his other thirty-five pounds of combat kit. Including: a vibro-knife, fragmentation grenades, signal flares, med-kit, canteen, survival knife, gas mask and air-filter (in case of helmet breach), weapon & armor maintenance kit, power-bar rations, infrared binoculars and other various items a soldier needs when engaged in combat.

Certain that is weapon was ready he pulled out a ration bar and ate the solid, heavy food-stuff. It didn't really have a taste, per say, though some would argue it tasted like everything from old cardboard to freshly polished boot leather. Regardless of its flavor, or lack thereof, it was packed with vitamins and minerals and loaded with calories – everything a soldier in the field needs. Though, a little additional tastiness wouldn't have hurt. He washed it down with cool, metal tasting water from his canteen.

Licking his lips he muttered to himself, "Rest times up, Nixy." He rose, taking another long gulp of his canteen and moved to urinate in the corner of the room. Back at the table he took the time to place everything back in its allotted position, remounted his helmet and slung his weapon over his back and went back downstairs.

**~ O ~**

Twenty-seven minutes later and two hundred meters away from alpha point, Nix stood with two dozen troopers in an empty public house, half watching the windows and the other half sniffing around the tavern.

"Sergeant Major!"

"What?"

"Found a tunnel here!"

Nix stomped over to where Zheko, a tall, strong elkhound, one of the best trackers in the regiment, waved from behind the bar.

"Tunnels? What sort of tunnels?" Nix asked.

"Don't know sir, but there's a tunnel leading out of the cellar, heading northeast. Man-made and not too big." Zheko said, squatting by the trapdoor. Eloy's arrow-shaped doberman face was looking up at them from the bottom of the stairs.

"Damn, we'll have to sort them out." Tunnels represented a serious tactical problem. They hadn't encountered any so far, but if the tunnels were an extensive network, enemies could use them to move around the town undetected. "Eloy get out of there," Nix said looking around at the assembled dog boys, "Ciro, Ugo, Mirror, front and center!"

The three terriers, each just over four feet tall, pushed their way forwards and stood next to Nix and the big Elkhound.

Tapping Ciro on the chest Nix said, "You're going in the tunnel. Check it out, clear it out."

They barked twice and started to remove extra equipment. They laid their short-stock laser rifle up against the wall, tossed their small backpacks to the ground and rearranged their webbing so that their laser pistols where slung over the chest plate, providing easy access when crawling on all fours.

"Go, go, go!" Nix said, slapping the terriers on the head as each dropped into the hole. "Eloy, guard this entrance. Everyone else, continue as before. Zheko has point."

The big elkhound moved to the door, glanced around, and loped out. Nix took one last look at the hole, and followed his dog boys out.

**~ O ~**

For Ciro leading a small party into the tunnel was nothing new to him – 'tunnel-dogging' they called it. It was hard, dangerous work that even some other dog boys were reluctant to do. Most humans wouldn't last long in the claustrophobic, lightless tunnels before their nerves betrayed them. Terriers however, small sized and mean and nearly fearless, were experts at sniffing out rats and mauling them when they found them. Ciro was eleven years old and grizzled and had been called out dozens of time to stalk through the dark, hunting an unknown enemy. He enjoyed it.

His eyes were not much use in the dark, and after a dozen meters from the tunnel entrance no use at all. However, his ears and more importantly his nose were keys to his success. He could track scents that were days old and based on only a few molecules he could begin generating a picture in his mind of what he was stalking. He start to sniff around, he heard Ugo and Mirror do the same.

There were many scents, some old, some new; the strongest was a human-scent: a mix of sweat and anxiety. People had been using the tunnel recently. He could smell them, so they must not be wearing full environmental body armor. He crept forward on all fours moving lightly, stopping to sniff every three meters or so. At the first junction he came to he signaled Ugo to check it out. A few minutes later the terrier tapped on his head-microphone twice, indicating it was clear. Ciro checked each side tunnel they came across scrupulously, never leaving one unscoured. All were empty, abandoned and dead-ends.

While Ciro waited for Mirror to finish checking the latest side-tunnel he heard a soft sound. He turned his face down the tunnel, and though he could not see anything he could hear beyond the scope of any human. A soft repetitive sound – footsteps. Multiple pairs of footsteps. He moved Ugo into the side tunnel and backed in himself, the tapped his microphone once – contact.

Squatting at the entrance he stretched his ears to the limit, unless there was another tunnel that intersected with this one, they were headed towards them. Definitely three, maybe four, maybe five sets of footsteps. He drew out his vibro-knife, but did not activate it. He heard the others do the same. They waited.

Ciro could hear their huffing now, they were moving quickly, eager to be out of the tunnels. They were moving at speed and the terrier was fairly certain they had image-enhancing equipment, most likely infrared, as there was no ambient light for passive nightvision equipment. Considering what he had seen above ground, they most likely they had rifles as well. The long weapons would be useless in the tight confines. The dog boys would wait until they passed the side-tunnel entrance then pounce, killing them with their knives and blades.

They came upon them quickly. Ciro waited until he heard the first puffing person pass them. He silently launched himself into the tunnel, one arm held out seeking to grab something, the other activating the deadly vibro knife. He collided with something and his hand brush against an arm. He grabbed the arm tightly, twisting it around and rammed his knife upwards. The terrier felt the humming blade deflect off of body armor and slide along, leaving a nasty grove. On his second thrust, to what he thought was the waist region of his target; he felt the blade sink into flesh. His foe's confused cries turned to death howls as the mono-molecular blade tore through his guts.

The three terriers howled as they tore into the men of the tunnel with a viciousness that would stun most people. Confusion and terror erupted. Laser fire, like a camera flashes, brightened the tunnel for mere fractions of a second. Whip-crack sounds deafened them in the tight confines. It was over quickly.

"Sound off." Ciro whispered.

"Here." Ugo said, panting.

Mirror moaned for nearby, "I'm wounded."

Ciro moved to his wounded compatriot and pulled him into the side tunnel. There he pulled out a lighter and flicked the igniter.

"Damn," he growled as he looked Mirror over. The terrier was holding what was left of his right arm to his chest. There was nothing below the elbow. The stump was cauterized, a sign of laser damage, but the flesh had also cracked and it was bleeding in places.

Ugo appeared alongside him; Ciro glanced up and said, "Ugo, your face?" The lakeland terrier reached up and touched his eyebrow. His hand came away bloodied. Confused, he searched his head further … his left ear was missing.

"Ugo, get his arm wrapped and get him ready to move. I'll check the dead."

Ciro moved back to the main tunnel, lighter in hand, and checked the bodies. There were four. Each wearing patched-together body armor and carrying second-rate laser rifles. The remnants of a town militia, maybe? The first man Ciro had attacked wasn't dead, though he would be shortly. The knife wound to his side was horrible and fatal, his shredded intestines were spilled out, blood pooled around him. Ciro squatted next to him and the man's glassy eyes flickered at the movement of the light. The man tried to mutter something, but the only sound was a bloody gurgle.

Ciro was of the mind to let the man suffer, he was the enemy, but he was still a human. Ciro felt for his master's kin. He wrapped his hands around the man throat and throttled him until him passed out, letting the man die unconscious. The terrier rose too his feet and looked around, taking stock. He had two wounded, though Ugo's was a flesh would and he could go on. He would return to surface, deposit Mirror, and signal the Boss that the tunnels were large and to advise him to send others to assist in clearance. Firstly though, there was one matter he had to complete.

**~ O ~**

Mirror's wound slowed them down, but they made good time considering. Ciro popped his head out of the tunnel hole, nodded to Eloy who was watching nearby, "Whatta got?" the sentry asked.

Ciro climbed out and reached down, helping Mirror painfully out of the hole. Ugo's one-eared head popped out afterwards.

"Ran into a party in the tunnels. I'll need more dog boys to clear it out." Ciro said to Eloy, trying to make Mirror comfortable, who though covered in fur, looked cold and pale and shivered. Ciro got on to his com-unit.

Ugo waved Eloy over, "Check it out." He said.

He pulled out four severed his and held them up for Eloy to see.

"Nice!" Eloy grinned toothily, flicking the nose of one of the faces.

**~ O ~**

Squatting half-in, half-out of a doorway, looking down the scope of the weapon Nix wondered exactly what the _hell_ was this? Standing in the middle of the road was small women, holding a hand up, shouting at them. Besides her, the dirt-packed street was empty – no movement. He didn't like it, it smelled of a trap. He could hear her shouting, _please please! _She was young, no more than eighteen, her dress ankle length, she had no shoes. Nix growled with irritation.

He glanced back at Roman, who raised an asking eyebrow. Nix shock his head. He didn't want the sniper to put her down – just yet.

He activated his com-link, "Wash Four here. Stay off the triggers. I'll check it out. Follow my lead." He rose to feet, weapon held to his shoulder, barrel towards his target. He stalked out smoothly in a half crouch, staying close to the wall. Roman filled his spot at the doorway. Nix thought himself a fool for doing this. A year ago if he was on a combat patrol he would have shot her in the head without a moment's hesitation. Three years from retirement and he was getting soft.

Activating his inbuilt helmet megaphone he shouted at the women, "Get down on the ground! Get DOWN!" His helmet amplified voice was hard and mechanical and alien.

The women saw him as he walked toward her, she moved and waved her arms at him.

"Stop! Don't move!" he held up his hand to her, "Get down on the ground, hands behind your head!"

She stumbled to a halt, confused.

"Do it! Do it now or I will shoot you!"

She went down on her knees and raised her hands above her head. Nix stomped up to her, leveling his barrel inches from her face.

"You have thirty seconds. Speak."

She stared up at his grim, emotionless, skull mask and hesitated.

"Speak!"

She looked terrified, "Sir, please! There are children in the school!" She twisted around and waved her hand at a building down the road.

"Don't move!" He growled. She snapped around to him, her eyes wet with tears.

"Please! Please don't hurt them." She begged, "All the other teachers left … I'm the only one here to look after them."

Nix looked up at the school and thought, it always has to be children, doesn't it. From the corner of his eye he saw the women move towards him. By instinct he swung she rifle stock round, smashing the women in the side of the head. She crumpled away and flopped to the ground. Nix was on her in a moment, his boot pressing hard on her throat; rifle aimed at her face, he growled softly, "I said do not move."

He held up his hand and motioned with two fingers: two taps right, two taps left. Moments later dog boys were advancing up the street and ducking in and out of the houses and buildings, sniffing, prowling and hunting.

"Roman take your team, check and clear the school. Take anyone you find and bring them … there," he said, gesture to a nearby shop. He reached down and pulled the women up by her hair, she was bleeding heavily from the ear, he dragged her callously.

**~ O ~**

He entered the small shop and shoved her behind the counter, "Stay." He told her, like a dog. He went to the window and peered down the street. Dog boys could be seen moving around, two of Roman's team lingering outside a fenced in yard.

"Excuse me, sir?" came a small voice from behind him. Nix turned and saw the girl standing up, holding a sleeve to her ruined ear.

"What's happening?"

Turning away from her he said, "Girl, I'm checking out your story. If it turns out correct, then I'll have you and your children transported to a holding point. You will be captives of the Coalition States. If your story proves false, well …" he left the end unsaid, but they both knew that the girl would be killed. Just then Roman came round the fence, with more than twenty children in tow.

Nix grunted.

The skinny greyhound loped in, held the door and ushered the children in, smiling. Dog boys were notorious for their love of children. The feeling was reciprocated. Children simply loved dog boys. As if to prove the point Fuzz, a white coated-pointer, was last through the door, he was holding a small boys hand. Nix glared at Roman and when the greyhound looked up, his smile fled and all he could do was shrugged at his sergeant major.

Nix growled, "Right! Settle down everyone." The children looked up in fear at the towering man in black armor and an evil skull faced helmet. "Girl, keep them silent." He ordered. The teacher gathered her children to her, hushing and soothing into silence.

Nix activated his com-unit, "Warhorse, Warhorse this is Wash Four."

"Go ahead Wash Four."

"Dysart, roll your track to me. Follow my suit tracker."

"Got you on the scanner, Boss. On route now."

**~ O ~**

Sergeant Dysart, the driver of the Mark IX EPC _Warhorse_, rolled his heavy tracked vehicle to a stop in front of the shop. He had been lurking a few streets away, waiting to be called into action. Coalition Infantry and armored unit were at their best when they worked closely in concert. The infantry dismounts provided the track with protection and ten sets of eyes, ears, and weapons. The track proved the infantry with quick transport and heavy weapons support, its heavy dual-barreled laser turret and stock of mini-missile where only a call away.

Dysart lowered the rear ramp and Nix stamped up into the vehicle. He popped his head into the drivers compartment, "Got a job for you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, get this load of kiddies to Ungar."

Dysart looked past Nix to see Fuzz and Roman helping the children into _Warhorse_.

"Damn, Sergeant Major! Do I look like a school bus?!"

"Dysart," Nix said, "Do I look like I give a damn?"

"Check it out Ray! They're a load of kids out here!" Called Tanner from the turret above and behind them.

"Shut your mouth, Tanner, the big boys are talking!" Nix shouted at the gunner, "Dysart, you'll do as I say, and you'll do it quick, and you'll do it right. You understand?"

"Yeah, yeah"

"What did you say?!"

"Yes, Sergeant Major!"

"Better."

Nix had ordered Fuzz to go with the packed tracked when the teacher came up to him, "Thank you sir." she said.

Nix just grunted. She hesitated, as if expecting him to say something more, something like; _Not a problem ma'am,_ or _just doing my duty_, or _sorry about cracking your skull open_, or _let's just get these kids out here to some place_ _safe_. He said none of those things; he just stared at her with his emotionless skull-face. After a few moments of awkward silence, she climbed into the EPC. The ramp shut and _Warhorse_ reversed and tightly rotated 180 degrees and sped away.

He hadn't said those things for two reasons. Firstly, he didn't believe he had to explain himself to the girl and secondly, he knew, depending on how things worked out at the processing stations, being a captive of the Coalition States would not be easy on her or her children. Killing them may have been a mercy in the long run.

**~ O ~**

Back in the shop, "What did you see Roman?" Nix asked his sniper.

Roman shook his head, "Nothing. I feel the section has cleared itself. I think they've pulled back. From the roof of Alpha I saw some larger, tougher looking structure to the north east. The target I shot was running that way."

Nix nodded in agreement, than held up his hand to silence Roman, "Wash Four here, go ahead, Ciro."

After a few moments of silent listening, "Copy that Ciro." Nix tapped his wrist comp, switching comm channels, "Wash Four to Palomino, come in Moy."

"Go 'head."

"Moy, I need to pick up Trooper Mirror, location 321 by 45. Med E-vac to Alpha Rally. Injured is stable but critical. Leave your fire-team with Ciro."

"Copy that. Moving out now Wash Four."

He nodded to Roman, "Right, we're trackless now. Let's find Dale's dogs and get the town swept, already."

**~ O ~**

They came upon Captain Dale of Fort Deep in the middle of fire-fight. Nix reported to the captain, who was hunkering down with a squad of armored men behind a crumbling wall. The officer was trying to establish a main line of resistance.

Laser bolt flashed above them. The Coalition soldiers were popping up and down, returning fire. Dale nodded when he saw the hulking sergeant major scamper to him.

"Nice to see you Nix" He called.

"Captain Dale, anything I can do?"

Dale smiled; Nix was practical to a fault, "What have you brought?"

"I've got me twenty-five of the hardest, meanest dog boys in Lone Star. They're straining at the leash, sir."

"Well Sergeant Major, we'd best let them loose. Take 'em to right flank. There's a red building, it's the linchpin of their defense. We take it; we'll be able to roll up their whole line. My crew tried to take it, got their asses handed to them. Show me what you can do."

"Sir." Nix saluted and scuttled away.

**~ O ~**

When Nix returned to his team, he shouted, "Play time, boys!"


	4. House of Red

**Chapter 3 **

**The House of Red**

******~ O ~**  


An explosion threw Nix bodily against a wall. He collapsed to the ground, rolled to his hands and knees and knitted together a string of profanities that would have made even the hardest grunt blush. Laser bolts smacked the wall behind him, inches from his head. With an undignified crawl, then an awkward lurch, then a powerful lunge he launched himself to safety beyond a pile of rubble.

He hurt. He looked down and saw liquid staining the ground dark between his legs. The explosion did not harm him directly; his body armor could take much worse. Though the impact had stunned him, he saw spots before his eyes. It also felt as if he'd pulled a muscle in his neck. The shrapnel had punched into or slashed off some of his webbing – his canteen had been peppered and was leaking.

Looking back at where the explosion had been and he saw a dog boy lying motionless against the wall, shrapnel embedded in his head, neck and muzzle. Blood pumped out slowing around the shard of metal in his jugular. Lygus blinked once then twice, then slowly raised an arm to his face. His body was suddenly struck half a dozen times by laser bolts, his limbs jerked wildly from the force of the impacts.

Nix could not see any of the other he had been with, they must of have scattered. The NCO rolled onto his stomach and poked an eye over the meager cover. Eighty feet away, hidden in a blown out window were two crouched shooters. He snapped his head back as bolts punched into the cover, small puffs of dust mushrooming up where they hit.

He wriggled around to get into a better shooting position, than snapped his C-27 up and over the cover.

Plasma bolts, blindingly silver-white hot, spat at the enemy shooters. His first shot lanced between the two shooters and punched a fist sized hole into the wall behind them, continued out the building. A sudden beam of sunlight came through the exit hole. His second shot struck a shooter in the upper-chest. A cloud of metal smoke and burnt flesh burst up from the wound. The sun-stuff bolt atomized his torso body-armor and most of his chest, he was dead before his hit the ground. Nix's third shot would have taken the head off other shooter had the man had not thrown himself to the ground.

Putting several more shots into the wall where he suspected the shooter had ducked, he was up and running hard, straight at the window.

He was quick and covered the distance swiftly. The widow was head high and he leapt up using an arm to brace himself as he hurled his legs in. Nix landed with a heavy thump, shoulders hunched and feet wide apart, he whipped his weapon around.

In front of him lay a mangled corpse and to his left lay a man on his stomach holding the remains of a wrist ahead of him, howling silently at the space his hand used to be. Nix shot the handless man twice, dinner plate size hole punched into his back.

While storming a room single-handedly was the stuff of barrack legends, tactically speaking, it was the one of the worse decision a soldier could make and statistically speaking one of the most fatal. The room had some furniture, a few low shelves with knit-knacks, and three entry ways. The window he had entered through, a corridor leading into darkness, and a closed door.

Three possibles.

Nix found the nearest corner and backed himself into it in an attempt to minimize the number of directions of attack.

**~ O ~**

In basic training Nix's drill instructor taught him at there are old soldiers, and there are bold soldiers, but there are no old, bold soldiers. While that may not necessarily be true, many old soldiers earned awards for bravery and citations for uncommon valor, however, the meaning of the message was clear. You take to many risks, and they'll catch up with you - usually in the form of a laser bolt to the head or demon's claw to the guts.

**~ O ~**

Once in the corner Nix dropped to one knee, reloaded his weapon, and activated his comm unit, "Wash Four here, fire-team Nix sound off."

There was a crackle, "Wash Four, Dog One here," Spoke Roman.

"Dog Thirty," growled Oak.

"Dog Fifty-Four here," snapped Luz.

Nix nodded, with dead Lygus being Dog one-oh-nine his complete fire-team was nearby, "Entrance into the house via the south window is clear. Sweep in here."

Affirmations snapped back.

**~ O ~**

Roman leapt fully, yet effortless, through the window. He landed nearly noiselessly on his thin, small feet and panned his bullpup rifle around, noting the entry ways, the corpses and his chief lurking in the corner. Roman quick-stepped to the darkened hallway and peeked around the corner, using the advanced thermal scope of his rifle to illuminate the space – a hallway, seventy-five long, ending in another room – no doors, no movement.

He glanced back when he heard Oak lumber through the window. First-Team's man-portable missile launcher was strapped to his back. Oak, an ugly faced, no-necked bulldog, was almost comically disproportioned. He had a grossly overdeveloped upper-body – massive arms, shoulders and pecs, a short torso with a little fat tummy, and stumpy, if solid, legs. He looked so top heavy that he might tip over at any moment. However, there was nothing comical about the determination in his mean eyes.

The thuggish bulldog turned, leaned out, extending his rifle out of the window. He lifted and Luz, a white-brown coated pointer with mismatched eyes – one brown, one green - was hanging off the barrel. Oak showed not the slightest effort from lifting the other dog boy using only strength in his shoulders and back. He swung the rifle into the room and Luz dropped off. The pointer's head snapped left, right, up and down in quick session, then he loped to the closed door. Oak waddled after him.

Nix had come to stand next to Roman, and signaled Oak to open the door. The big bulldog grabbed the handle and pulled hard.

Luz snapped up his laser rifle and discovered it was a closet. He stepped back and Oak closed it with a thud.

The floor above them suddenly creaked and a quick session of heavy thumps knocked.

In the blink of an eye, the room was filled with laser bolts punching through the ceiling.

All four dove for the walls and corners. Roman turned swiftly into the hallway, only to throw himself back into the room – deadly laser bolts chasing after him.

"Light 'em up!!" Roared Nix laying on his back, he emptied his plasma rifle into the ceiling.

Luz and Oak switched their C-14s to pulse, which unlike Nix's weapons allowed the shooter to eject three bolts with each one pull of the trigger, and plastered the wooden ceiling with twenty laser bolts each. Whip-crack sounds reverberated off the walls. The exchange of laser fire quickly filled the ceiling with dozens of finger sized holes. Roman rolled to his knees, spun around and pulsed the hallway with a dozen shots, "Contact," he growled professionally.

Laser bolt struck all around Oak. A sofa blew apart, showering the ugly bulldog in white fluff and caught fire. Oak leapt away and was struck in the shoulder, his armor protected him of having his arm severed, but the bolt had blown off several of his small armor spikes and drove him to his knees. With a grunt, he efficiently ejected his e-clip and slapped in another, raised his rifle and pulsed away.

Luz had a particular stance that was common with the pointer breed; he held his rifle like he was pointing his way to a downed bird – steady, straight out, stock tucked into his chest not his shoulder, elbows down – not at the Coalition approved rifle technique. But it worked for him, he had an excellent shooting record. The slim pointer put those skills to work; he was rewarded with the unique sound of laser striking super-alloy, a sort of _tink-hiss._

There was a series of thumps across the ceiling, as the shooters above them attempted to race from the room. Roman heard the noise, twisted his body around uncomfortably, tracked the noise of the thumping over the whip-cracks of the laser rifle fire, Oak's bellowing, and heavy _foosh_ of plasma fire, estimated the required lead distance, and sent out a single shot. There was a single, heavy, definitive thud. With that he jerked his body back round, thumbed the weapon to pulse, and blasted along the hallway.

When his e-clip ran dry and he leaned away from the hallway and shouted, "Grenade here!"

Oak bounded up, pumped the grenade launcher mounted on his rifle, "Blast out!" he shouted, stuck his rifle barrel around the edge of the doorway and pulled the trigger. Propellant smoke traced the arch of the explosive.

The rifle grenades were smaller than normal grenades but could be launched further than most people could throw. The explosive flew down the long, dark hallway, landed and exploded. Shrapnel, and the concussion force of the explosive, shredded and shook the room beyond.

"Move up," Nix ordered before the echo died away.

**~ O ~**

No one bothered to ask if Roman had hit a target above them or not, if he had missed then they'd no doubt be facing him later, and if he had hit the target – while twisted around at an awkward angle, killing a man running full out with a single laser bolt – it would be added to his already impressive list of miracle shots.

Oak bounded quickly down the hallway with all the grace of a runaway freight train. Nix stalked closely behind him. They were followed by Roman, with his scope on his eye, and Luz, turned sideways to watch out behind them. The big bulldog halted just before the doorway, dropped his rifle, which swung down to his side on a sling, and made to draw his big vibro-knife, when suddenly a figure launched through the doorway, throwing itself at Oak. The bulldog, expertly trained in hand-to-hand combat like all dog boy, turned aside his attacker and shove it up against the wall. It was a man, half-armor protecting his torso, no weapon in his hands. He was bleeding from the face and one arm was twisted and mangled horribly.

Pinning the struggling figure with one massive hand, Oak used his other elbow to crush the man's head against the sandstone wall. His head flattened grossly from the strength behind the blow, blood squired out, slashing the walls red.

The bulldog roared at corpse as it slid to the floor. Then the massive brute turned and bulldozed forwards.

**~ O ~**

Red hunkered down behind a pile of rubble and watched the red house. Two fire teams nearby were engaging the house defenders in a light duel of laser fire. It was intended to keep their attention focused on them while Nix lead a small infiltration team around the left flank to approach from a hopefully unexpected angle.

During the modest exchange the boxer counted at least ten shooters. It would be rough going to cross the rubble strewn street and storm the house, he thought. Where was the chief's signal?

Red lowered his head and looked at Igual, the handsome golden-retriever looked back.

"Anything?" Red asked.

"No Red, nothing," Igual replied, one hand pressed to his headset. All dog boys wore communication units, usually in the form of a headset with microphone lead, or an ear bead with a small microphone attached to their shoulder webbing. They were small devices with limited range and few channels. Igual, as smart as he was handsome, carried the team's heavy radio unit. The device had infinitely more range and a significantly greater range of communication channels.

It was very uncommon for dog boys to carry specialist gear such as heavy radios, or Fabian's rail-gun, but Captain Hand was far from a common leader. The Captain had an unorthodox command style – so much so that at Command they referred to him has Captain 'Mad-Hand.' He often relied on his trusted squad leaders to make critical decisions on the heat of battle and even more controversially assigned dog boy troopers to typically non psi-hound positions. Due to this, and other concerns, he had not won many friends back at Command.

"Igs, keep an ear in, would you?" Red said.

Igual turned to fiddle with his radio unit, "Red, listen," he held out his headset.

Red took the headset and looked at it for a moment, realizing for the first time that he was in charge. The headset had been handed to _him_ … he was to make decisions now.

He pressed the headset to one ear. Voices crackled, call signs were being exchanged, someone one asking for Wash One. Igual, who was listening with the secondary small ear-bead, slapped Red's knee and mouthed to him, _that's you, answer!_

Red fumbled the handset, pressed the small button, and grumbled into the microphone lead, "Go 'head."

"Whoever is using the radio, use standard protocol. Wash Six."

"Wash Six this is Dog Four, standing in Wash One," Red said embarrassedly.

"Dog Four, where's Nix?" Wash Six was the call sign for First Sergeant Tabitha Bluebird, leader of Third-Team.

"Wash Six, Sergeant Major is leading a fire team. We're at …" he gestured to Igual for the map. The radio-dog passed it over. Red stared at it for a long time, unsure.

"Dog Four, what's your status!"

"Apologies Wash Six, attempting to locate our station."

"Unacceptable, Dog Four. Failure to use radio protocol, not knowing your position, what the hell are you playing at? Pull your shit together, right now!"

"Yes, sir!"

Red looked at Igual, the golden-retriever frowned but whispered, "298 by 187."

"Wash Six, we are at, mark, 298 by 187."

There was a momentary pause, then the unit crackled, "Solid copy Dog Four. I'll be with you in under ten."

"Solid copy, Wash Six."

Red sighed and tossed the headset back to Igual, he muttered something nasty.

The golden-retriever shook his head and said, "Listen Red. We go way back, you and I. I know you just got ranked up – and I know it's no easy task. But you need to know the call signs, radio chatter, all that stuff. You've got to know it, sharpish, yeah hear me?" He flapped the map in the boxer's face, "and you've got to learn the map. Or else, some other dog is going to have a piece of you."

Red leaned forward and growled low and dangerous, "Let 'em try."

"I'm not talking in a fist-fight, Red," Igual said seriously, "the Chief can pull those stripes off your sleeves as quick as he can put them on. You let him down, just once, what do you thinks gonna happen, Red?"

The boxer shrugged.

"Do you want be knocked back to ranks, eh, Red do you?"

The boxer growled and looked away, muttering under his breath.

"Red?"

The boxer looked back at Igual, his short, blunt face hard and serious, "Address me as corporal."

Igual nodded approvingly, "Better. My apologizes, corporal."

Red nodded back and said, "Keep me informed of comm traffic, and tell the boys to stand ready, it shouldn't be long now," then turned away to watch the house, waiting for Nix's signal. But he also placed the map to his side, where he could study the cartographic information.

Igual saw the map and grinned, "Aye sir."

**~ O ~**

The signal was not the flare that launched into the air. The signal came a second after the flare burst into a bright, red star. The left side of the red house was rocked by a massive explosion. Red ducked his head and was quickly bathed in smoke and dust.

As the smoke and dust cleared and the sound of raining debris stopped he raised his binoculars and panned left. He saw rewarded with an image of Oak standing up heroically in the swirling dust-storm, missile launcher perched on his beefy shoulder, and launch another mini-missile through the hole created by the first missile.

Half of the front windows of the red house blow out into the street, bodies with them.

"Go! Go! GO!" roared Red rising up and waving his hand, "take that damned house!"

With Nix's team assaulting through the newly created doorway on the left side of the building, and Red's teams launching a dozen rifle grenades through windows before running in, weapons blazing and blades humming, the red house was secured before Bluebird's troopers arrived. Three dog boys were killed in that action.

Captain Dale had been right. The red house acted as a linchpin in the defense of Windward. With the house taken and its defenders killed to the last, the last few pockets of resistance dried up, men with rifles throw them down and ran into the wastes.

There they were literally hounded to death.

**~ O ~**

By late afternoon the two captains shook hands and declared the town pacified. Dale and the soldiers of Fort Deep set up camp on the southern end of town, to await day break to retire to their base a few hours' drive south. The troops from Fort Wash could been home by nightfall if they drove hard, however, due to the numbers of prisoners captured and the wounded troopers there was not enough space for all of them. Hand thought briefly of executing the prisoners, but then decided against it. He choose to leave two teams in a protected area on the eastern end of town and take all the tracks and a few troopers back to Fort Wash immediately, unloading the wounded and the prisoners, then returning the following morning to collect the rest of them.

Nix volunteered to stay behind and head up security. The Wash troopers had taken over half a dozen homes and buildings and the sound of dog boys talking and laughing and replaying every minute of assault bubbled around him.

Nix walked, making the rounds. He made sure that everyone had had something to eat and drink. He made his patrol rota, two-hour stents, ten dogs on patrol at any given time.

The sky was purple, not long before true dark set in, the first few stars were twinkling above, when he found himself a nice piece of wall and leaned up against it. He pulled off his helmet and clipped it to his belt. Rubbing his hand over the shaved scalp he grunted as exhaustion began to creep into his body.

A patrol of dog boys walk by, Faust and Bo nodded to him as they passed, he nodded back.

There was a slight noise beside him, "Chief," said Red from his side.

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

Nix nodded.

"Chief, I'm not really sure what I'm meant to do."

Nix was quiet for a long time then very seriously said, "Walk with me Red."

**~ O ~**

Nix took Red around the building, and along a back road. They both could hear the chatter of dog boys nearby. Once they were in a quiet spot, Nix pulled out a ration can, tore open the top and put his spoon in the can. He took a large spoonful of food and swallowed, "You did well taking the house. Almost, like I would have done it."

Red nodded, pleased.

"Though sergeant Bluebird tells me you aren't up to scratch on comm procedures."

Red's pleased feeling disappeared, he feared he was about to lose his promotion.

"Red, I know the rank-up came as a surprise to you, but I think you can do it. You're not nearly dumb as you look."

"Umm… yes, sergeant major." Now, not sure what to feel.

"Now that you're a unit leader you'll have a fire-team with you. You'll be in charge of lives, you hear. If you say, 'go left', and they get killed. You killed them as surely as the enemy. But you have to go left, so what do you do?"

Red glared at the ground, "I don't know, chief."

Nix kicked Red in the shin, making the dog boy yelp. "I said, what do you do?"

"Err, I would check out the approach … hmm …"

"Good, good."

"If the route was obviously blocked, I would try to flank the position."

Nix nodded and spooned more goop into his mouth, "What if you couldn't flank?"

"If that wasn't an option … I'd see if there was armor or robots or some heavy weapon teams nearby. Maybe some SAMASs to lend a hand."

"There aren't."

"If my only option was to charge the position, then I would charge, Chief. Me and my team, howling like devils, sir."

"Then you'd all die."

"So be it, chief."

Nix nodded, his spoon rattling around the inside of the can, hunting for more goop. "Red, its good that you think of options first. But, listen carefully now, if you ever find yourself against an unassailable position, back off. I'm not talking running away with your tail between your legs. Regroup. Rethink. I'm talking tactical withdrawn. It's not a maneuver that officers are prone to use much, but if you find yourself between death and a hard-run … I suggest you take the hard-run."

The boxer nodded, unsure.

"Red you, and all the boys, are worth more to us alive then dead."

"Yes, sir," Red said, pleased to hear he was valued. "Oh, one more question."

"Hmm?"

"What can I expect from you, sir?"

"From me?" Nix said slowly, thoughtfully, "Well, Red, I think you've noticed how I'm hard on my team leaders. I'm hard on Unger and Bluebird. I was hard on Lando. Roman runs longer, trains harder, and spends more time on the range than any other dog boy, and I can tell you, it's not _ALL_ by choice. From now on, you can expect me to ride you like my own personal bitch.


	5. Dog Bastards

**Chapter 4 **

**Dog Bastards**

******~ O ~**  


The remnants of Wash Company were picked up the following morning after a relatively uneventful night. A patrol encountered a group of returning town's folk, being unarmed, the patrol chased them away. On their watch, Bo and Oak found two men claiming to be leaders in the town militia wanting to surrender to the officer in charge of the Coalition detail. Nix was called and when he arrived one of the men pulled out a hidden solid-shot pistol and attempted to shot him. Bo jumped in front of the shot, being severely wounded in the face and eye for his selfless bravery. Oak grappled with the other man breaking his neck, while Nix killed the shooter by strangling him. After that incident, any furthers encounters were considered be hostile and targets were to be shot on sight.

They arrived at Fort Wash by late morning.

Fort Wash was a square, half mile at the side, and wrapped in a twelve foot high curtain wall of super-alloy. Armed watchtowers sat each corner and halfway down the length of each section. The towers and walls were patrolled by men and dog boys.

Once through the armored gatehouse the tracks rolled to the vehicle bays attached to the main base structure of Fort Wash, making a large L-shaped building. The building and its attachments took up a quarter of the internal space. The rest of the cleared ground containing a large, dark landing pad with an enormous white X across the center, a firing range, training and drill grounds, and in a far corner, a quiet cemetery.

Dog boy troopers had no home to be sent too, so if they were buried at all, they were buried were they were stationed.

The vehicle bay was a large, high-ceiled space where the company's compliment of armored tracks resided. They were well looked after by a team of dedicated mechanics and engineers. Tumbling out the tracks the deadboys and dog boys arrayed in lines and endured a quick inspection from Lieutenant Bell, after which they were dismissed to their quarters.

**~ O ~**

The main building, called Section Alpha on the official plans, but it was called Home by the soldiers, was a rectangular four-story trapezoid that looked like a tiny version of the vast fortress-cities of the Coalition States.

The majority of the first floor was giving over to housing the dog boys of the company regardless of rank. The thought being that few creatures in the universe could sneak past hundreds of hardened dog boys. Though the space would have been cramped by human standards, the pack-orientated dog boys benefitted from the close living conditions. Though, at times it made the base smell like a kennel. They had all that they needed - showers, toilets, gymnasium, rec-room - and rarely need to venture beyond the second floor, even if their clearance allowed for it.

The second floor was sectioned into two halves. One half being the base's mess hall and kitchens and food stores, the other being the quarters to the non-commissioned officers. Being fewer in numbers allowed the NCOs a greater luxury of space and slightly higher quality of furniture. A smaller work-out facility was sandwiched between the two halves, but as it was never used, the NCO's preferred to use the greater range of facilities on the first floor, it had been converted into a small video screening theatre.

The third floor was the officer's quarters, the briefing room, sick-bay and medical clinic, and the administrative offices. The great majority of the organization and operational planning happened from this floor.

If the third floor was considered the brain of the base, the fourth was its beating heart. It was half the size of the others and was the command and control center for Fort Wash. The space was wrapped in 360 degree high-impact, polarized armaglass offering fantastic views of the compound below and the wastes beyond. Contained within were wall-to-wall computers, screens, data-banks, communication equipment, radio gear, tables, chairs and dim lighting. When not in the field, Hand practically lived there. The commanding officer had slung a hammock between a rafter point and a support pole, so he could have quick naps without having to leave 'C-n-C'.

There were access doors to what would been the roof of the third floor, pintle-mounted laser cannons at the far corners. Often soldiers could be found smoking and relaxing in the sun on what they called the 'wings.' There was a roof access ladder that allowed the soldiers onto the roof, officially, to perform maintenance on the transmitters and receivers, however, the officers and senior enlisted staff could have quiet drinks in the only private space at Fort Wash.

Below the base was a basement as large as the entire above section. Here was the company armory, huge water tanks and purification equipment, heating and air condition equipment, air filtration and monitoring apparatuses, a smaller secondary command center, and the great nuclear reactor which powered the fort.

**~ O ~**

Standard base protocol dictated the schedule of the three combat teams. One team was to patrol Fort Wash's sphere of influence. In tracked convoys the team operated near and far, running along both established and new routes, to confuse and surprise any potential enemies. Another team stood guard at the base for a week, manning the guard towers and entry ports as well as internal security for Section Alpha. The final team was allotted to rest detail. Superficially they rested, while they were not assigned any combat duties, the resting team were often tasked with the most mundane jobs; maintaining the grounds, staffing the kitchen, and making sure the base was clean and spotless. Captain Hand was particularly interested in cleanliness, so much so, that every soldier was as proficient with a mop and bucket as they were with their rifles.

That meant that at any given time roughly forty combat soldiers were patrolling the Wash area, forty were guarding the base, and forty on resting & recovery. After an assault operation like Windward, all troops were pulled back and no patrols sent out for a few days.

Though no patrols were out the week following the assault on Windward, base operations continued as per normal. As such, once per week a squad from the unit on rest-detail was assigned to travel to Holmes, the nearest town of any significance, and purchase supplies. This was important for several reasons. Firstly, it allowed Fort Wash a source of fresh supplies, particularly vegetables. Secondly, the squad selected to go were treated to a night away from the base, as they often had to stay the night in the local travel-house. One of the worst punishments at Fort Wash was to have your 'Holmes-duty' revoked. And thirdly, it gave Holmes a source of income.

Captain Hand insisted that the Coalition soldiers pay better then the going rate of anything they purchased. Feeding and supplying nearly two hundred soldiers, once a week, over the last five years had allowed the town to grow and prosper. Since the company set-up Fort Wash, Holmes had grown from a collection of half a dozen families to a town of near five hundred. Advantageously, this practice also made the town depended on Fort Wash and therefore by extension the Coalition States.

Nix accompanied Bluebird and a squad of her troopers from third-team to Holmes late in the morning. Her three tracks rolled south, honking their horns at the small group of troops pulling duty at the large radio tower a quarter mile south of the Fort Wash. Set high on a rocky crag, the dull black radio tower was crucial to the communication grid.

The lead track's radio popped, "RT One to Mustang."

"Sarge," said her adjutant, Mulchus, as he passed her the mic.

"Go ahead Radio Tower," spoke Bluebird, eyeing the tower in the distance.

"Bring me back some rubbers."

"RT One, your request is denied. Copy?"

"Mustang, how come?"

"Waste of resources, RT One. You don't need rubbers if all you ever do is jerk-off."

There was snorting laughter over the radio, "Got me on that, Mustang. Safe travels."

She smiled, "See you tomorrow, RT One."

**~ O ~**

Holmes was a dusty place with no order or sense to the streets or the layout of the buildings. A couple dozen shabby buildings made up the town proper, with another dozen farm houses outside the town. The farmers grow mostly root vegetables and raised sheep and chicken.

Politically, the town supported the aims of the Coalition. While not rabid human-supremacists, the population of Holmes made sure that no magic-users, dimensional beings, or mutants took up residence there. Often simply by asking them to leave, or that failing, threatened to call Fort Wash. That said Holmes employed a dozen mercenaries to act as a police force.

Rolling into town the three tracks clanked their way down the main street and to the mayor's home. By the time they arrived the mayor was waiting for them, having been alerted to the Coalition's arrival by a town guard.

Mayor Low was a stooped man, aged beyond his years from a life time of hard labor in the wild wastes. He wore brown coveralls and walked with the aid of a cane. A large hat shielded his eyes from the sun's bright glare.

The three tracks parked in a line before Low, and lowered their ramps. Soldiers, dog boys and humans alike, strolled out, stretching arms and legs, though armed, none wore helmets. Bluebird and Nix walked over to the mayor.

"Afternoon Mayor," Bluebird said.

"Sergeant Bluebird, Sergeant Major Nix," he nodded back.

"Permission to enter Holmes, mayor?" Bluebird asked.

"Permission granted." Intoned the Mayor formally, then he grinned, "How are the two of you? Tabitha, you are looking more beautiful then ever!"

"You flatter me, mayor"

"Nonsense! If was half my age, I'd be on you like a dog after a cat.

"Mayor, even at half your age you'd still need your food mashed up to eat."

"Nonsense!" he laughed, "come in, the both of you," waving his hand to the house.

Mayor Low was right, Tabitha Bluebird was striking looking, but not traditionally good-looking. She had brown skin, dark eyes, a beaky-nose and a wide mouth. Her body was strong and hard, a soldier's body. She was often a hot topic of barrack-room debate, most of which centered around whether she was pretty or not. She currently had about a fifty percent ranting amongst the men at Fort Wash; half thought is looked 'laser hot', the other half thought she was 'demon-whore ugly.'

Publicly, Nix balled-out anyone who asked his opinion, often roaring at them to keep their minds off First Sergeant Bluebird's backside or he'd be putting his size 15's up theirs. He would not tolerate anyone disrespecting a senior enlisted soldier.

Privately, Nix thought she was utterly lovely. Over the years they had developed an efficient professional relationship. She looked up to him as her senior and mentor; he looked after her as one of his senior non-commissioned officers. He was hard on her, very demanding, though fair. Professionally speaking, she rarely let him down. On the rare occasions they had a free time together there was always a slight tension between them; Nix always assumed that she was scared of him. He approved of the respect, and fear, she gave him - though deep down he was still human and secretly lamented that a pretty girl did not like him.

The Coalition armed forces had no policy against women serving. Over a third of all combat troops were female and half of all non-combatants were women. Women served in all administrative, support and combat areas and performed as well as any man and in some cases even better. Females often graduated from the elite RPA training scheme with higher scores than their male counterparts. One of few areas where women did not perform as well as men was in the infantry, where brute strength and dumb courage still reigned supreme.

**~ O ~**

The two NCO deadboys sat in a big room with large windows overlooking the town center, the mayor's house staff had brought them ice cold water, knowing from experience that neither would drink anything else while on duty. The old mayor eased himself into a chair with a groan.

He looked at them, "Feeling the years, I am."

Nix nodded, Mayor Low was looking older then he'd ever seen him, "How are things, sir?"

"All right, yeah. Crops look good. The animals are doing fine. A month or two ago some pig-faced bandits out of Pecos came around here, looking to rob us. Pringle and his boys saw them off."

Nix approved and said so.

"You looking to buy the usual, or are you looking for something a little more exciting."

"Mayor, you know I don't like excitement," Nix said.

"Of course, of course, I just thought I'd ask. Got a shipment of Northern Gun goodies thought you'd like to have a look at."

Nix frowned, "Mayor please."

The old man held up his hand, "All right, you grump. Is he always so grumpy?" he asked Bluebird.

"You know he is."

After a few hours of viewing the famer's wares and price negotiating the team from Fort Wash had all they were going to buy. They loaded tracks with crates of vegetables, packets of dried meat, and a several freezers of frozen meat shanks and featherless chickens. Some of the soldiers purchased items requested by their comrades, trinkets and nick-nacks for loved ones, or surplus supplies to barter with back at base. There was a healthy, unofficial, unsanctioned, blackmarket at the Fort Wash – as there would have been at any base.

Nix spoke with Pringle, the chief of the town mercenary's, to get a report of the activities in the area. Besides the attacks six weeks ago, the town had not had any unusual encounters, well unusual for Lone Star State that is – terrible screams heard at night, farm animals went missing on a regular basis, caravans left for Lone State City or Odessa, never to be heard from again – that sort of thing.

The world was a dangerous place, and as his father used to say in his thick Iron Heart accent, 'Only the strong have a chance to life.'

**~ O ~**

The evening was spent at the Holmes Home, the local travel-house. Nix sat with Bluebird eating a meal of meat and potatoes. Some of the other Coalition troopers hung around the travel-house, idling eating, lounging, or playing cards. Some were outside on the porch, enjoying a night off with the warm summer air, smoking and chatting. Others had slunk off to find more illicit entertainment. Nix turned a blind eye to their antics, trusting they'd stay out of any serious trouble.

Low limped in, glanced around, spotted Nix and approached with a smirk.

Nix nodded.

"I wanted to show you this," he said without preamble, and put a cloth wrapped bundle on the table.

"What have we here?" Nix said while he lowered his fork and eyed Low.

"Just a little something in that NG shipment I was talking about."

Nix raised an eyebrow but flip the cloth off the bundle with a finger nonetheless. It was a pistol, fashioned to look it an antique revolver.

"Not bad." A real compliment from Nix.

Low bobbed his head up and down, "I thought you'd like it. Real cowboy stuff, eh!"

"Sure. But I'm no cowboy, Low."

Low laughed, "Ain't that the truth! You're harder then any cowboy or gunslinger I've ever met."

Nix just stared at town's mayor, waiting to hear something worth his time to reply.

"Simon, I want you have it." Low said, suddenly awkward.

"Excuse me?"

"Have it, son. You've done right by me. You and your mutts have looked out for us. Made us safe and all that, it's a gift you see."

"Mayor, this wouldn't be a bribe would it?"

Low frowned, "Damn it, son! What you tryin' to say …" then he stopped, realizing Nix was winding him up, "ya bastard!"

Nix took up the dark gray revolver. Though fashioned to look like an antique, it was all superficial. The weapon was made of new-age plastics, ceramics, and metals. The capacitors and focus lens were built into the center of the weapon. The handle was fitted with a port that allowed e-clips. The handle itself was metal with a wooden overlay, and ornately carved. A skull with a rose clenched in its teeth. The image pleased grizzled veteran.

Nix held weapon in his hand. He slipped an e-clip out from his belt, loaded the weapon, listened of the hum of the charged weapon, thumbed the safety off, then turned it out slowly, pointing the barrel straight at Low.

Suddenly the room got very quiet.

If Mayor Low was frightened by suddenly having an armed weapon aimed at him, he was terrified by Nix's face.

The face of a stone-cold killer.

"Thank you, Low."

**~ O ~**

On the journey back to Fort Wash the following morning, Bluebird said to Nix, "That was pretty harsh."

"Ehh?"

"That thing with Low and the pistol. I know Low can be overly familiar, but that was exceedingly harsh, even for you."

Nix nodded, "Sometimes," he said thoughtfully, " … sometimes, they just need be reminded that we're not their friends."

**~ O ~**

A month had passed since the destruction of Windward. Fort Wash kept up its grueling routine of raids, assaults and persecution of the wastelands. Summer was at its height, the sun burned and the air thick. Late summer rain storms brought black clouds which covered the sky from horizon to horizon and delivered unbelievable deluges. Lighting flashed like laser bolts, thunder boom like explosions.

Summer in the State of Lone Star.

One fine morning a huge Death's Heads transport landed gently on the X-marked pad, the anti-gravity units pushing aside a small amount of dirt and dust. Hand, Harper, Bell and Nix - the command team of Fort Wash - stood just off the landing pad and waited until the vehicle had settled fully before walking towards it. Their monthly resupply was always an eventful day and all four of them, and a platoon of dog-troopers waiting behind them, were excited. The entire base was excited.

The item that raised hopes highest was the prospect of mail. Most of the human troopers received regular video-letters from friends and family from all over the States, and those that could write, mostly the officers and technicians, and had someone to write back to them, enjoyed the pen and paper variety with infinite delight. The dog-troopers, none of which could read or written more then the most basic letters or numbers, never received mail of any sort. Psi-hounds weren't in the practice of communicating with others outside their pack. They were more excited about the prospect of getting resupplied and perhaps a new weapon or two. The recently wounded in Fort Wash's infirmary were excited about being taken to regimental headquarters to properly recover or if the wounds grave enough, to have reconstructive-bionic surgery.

The rear ramp of the transport lowered and per protocol, armed soldiers bounded down and took up positions around the transport and secured the landing zone. After a few moments two men down marched down the ramp. Wash command squad moved to greet them.

The two men, one extremely tall and armored, a spiked helmet tucked under his crook of his elbow, a large kit bag gripped tightly in his other hand, black half-sun tattoos under each eye. The other man was much shorter and dressed in formal field kit, black greatcoat open at the front; he carried a briefcase in his hand. The three strips above a downward facing triangle on his sleeves, the epaulets, and the three silver bars on his collar indicated that he was a major. Hand pulled his team up short and Nix shouted 'attention' and the command squad stiffened and all snapped salutes as the two men stopped in front of them.

"Captain Hand, reporting."

The shorter of the two men eyed the command squad unpleasantly, "Major Lavrov," returning the salutes without much passion, "This is Sergeant Darkcloak." He gestured to the towering figure behind him. The man was pale-skinned, totally bald, and looked completely humorless.

Hand frowned, "Sir, where is Major Startmore?"

"I am his replacement." Lavrov said and pointed to the base, "Escort me to your briefing room, Captain. Now."

"Of course, sir! Nix sort out the resupply and join us immediately," Hand ordered.

"Yes sir, Captain." Nix snapped a salute and turned on his heel and bellowed for troopers.

Hand swept his arm around, "This way, Major."

**~ O ~**

"Red!" Nix called when he reached the waiting platoon.

"Sir." The powerful boxer was at his side in moments.

"Get two squads together and get the supplies off." He said, watching the new major walk towards the Wash. He saw the captain gesturing to interesting figures or quoting facts. His brow was knitted with thought, "Also, get the replacements settled in. Induction and squad assignments at eighteen-hundred."

"Yes sir," Red said, then asked, "Sir, where's old Startmore?"

All Nix could do was shrug, "Get to it, would you. That Death's Head isn't going to unload itself."

**~ O ~**

By the time Nix reached the briefing room. A room arranged with sofas around a large central low table. The room could hold a two dozen comfortable or twice that if needs demanded, with only the six of them it felt to large. Lavrov had settled into the best seat, looking over papers and a portable-computer on the table. The seat was by the window and was a large, plush red chair with carved lion's feet and usually no one would dare sit there, for that was Hand's seat. Upon, entering Bell gave him a quick look and the tiniest shake of his head. A warning if Nix had ever seen one. Before he could reply Lavrov called, "Sergeant Major …, " he consulted the porta-comp on the table, " … Simon Nix."

Nix, having caught the warning from Bell snapped stiff to attention throwing a tight salute, "Sir."

Lavrov gave him a measuring look, his eyes taking in his size and formidable presence, his cruel features and dark eyes, "now that you've finally joined us, let us begin."

He cleared his throat loudly before beginning, then he stood and faced out the window, the glare of the wildlands bright in the window.

"Major Startmore was killed a month ago," he started, "Shot down in a shoot-out with bandits out of the Pecos region." He shook his head, genuinely saddened.

"Until a senior officer can be found, I have been placed as the executive officer of the Tenth," he said, "While my predecessor and I differed in our methods we were both working for the same cause, the salvation of mankind and taking back our lands. However, he was unorthodox in his methods. Causing much consternation among the senior staff at Division headquarters and HQ has seen this as an opportunity to clean house." He turned from the window and faced senior staff of Fort Wash. "Since the Tenth has come under command of Colonel Santos many have thought it has become wayward – particularly the freedoms entrusted to the departed Major. As such, I am here to return you to the fold. Starting with Startmore's Outfort companies."

He paused for a moment, "Any questions?"

Hand's eyes were cast down, his lips pinched; the magnitude of what Lavrov had just told them was shocking. He looked up when Lavrov was finished, "Excuse me sir, what exactly do you mean, _clean house_?"

"Captain, you know full well this base is not up to standard operating protocol and quality of the men here is highly questionable." Lavrov's eyes did a quick scan of the room and held up his hand. He took to stalking about the room as he talked, "Second Lieutenant Robert Bell, one account of dereliction of duty based on incompetent." He raised one finger, Bell paled.

"First Lieutenant Ronald Harper, three charges of gambling with Coalition Army pay wages," he raised a second finger, Harper raised an eyebrow.

"Sergeant Major … Simon Nix, one account of cowardice in the face of the enemy." He held up a third finger, Nix glared hard.

"And you Captain Arnold Hand, accused of murdering your superior officer." He held up a fourth finger. "What do you say to those charges?"

"I was accused," Hand said, leaving out the implication that nothing was ever proved.

Lavrov waved a hand and stopped prowling, "Enough! I want a full inventory on my desk tomorrow morning, also, I noted you failed to have any psi-stalkers on staff, one of the many things where you and your forces have proved to be deficient, I have no doubt I'll find others. Therefore, Darkcloak will be joining you, permanently." He turned and snapped his fingers at Nix, "Sort out his accommodations, immediately. The rest of you officers are to take me on the tour of the facility." He turned and strode towards the door, opening it and waited for the officers to file out before exiting, leaving only Nix and Darkcloak, who had said nothing the entire time.

Darkcloak moved from the corner of the room and approached Nix. He towered over him, and Nix was big man. He stuck out his hand, "Fenix" he said, his voice deep.

Nix frowned, but before he could roar at him, Darkcloak held up a hand, "I'm not want you think. I'm no spy of Lavrov. I've no time for a desk-driver like him. I was with Startmore when the old warhorse was killed. I got assigned here because there weren't any other experienced psi-stalkers available. Startmore always spoke highly of Captain Hand and his "dog-bastards," he liked to call you."

Nix continued to frown but he said, "Good to know. But it doesn't matter who you last served with, you'll earn your keep around here or I'll ram my size 15's up your pale ass."

Darkcloak grinned, the first time his face was showed any emotion, "Yes, Sergeant Major. I'll do right by you. To the end."

Finally taking his outstretched hand Nix shook it firmly, "To the very end," Nix said, "Get your bag, I'll show you to the quarters."

Nix took Darkcloak to the non-commissioned officer's ward-n-quarters, on the second floor. The wardroom was a large central space where the non-coms lived, rested, and relaxed when not on duty. A dozen four-person bedrooms, large lounge, laundry facilities and two large unisex washrooms branched off the wide hallway. The three senior non-commissioned officers - Nix, Ungar, and Bluebird - had their own private rooms with attached washrooms, and as the base of woefully understaffed and most of the other non-coms and specialist preferred to room with members of their own specialty, Darkcloak was assigned a room to himself. He didn't own much besides his issued kit, and it didn't take him long to settle in.

Afterwards, he went directly to the psi-hound quarters and walked amongst them. He looked at them eye-to-eye, felt their emotions press against his mind, and ran his pale bare hands along their furry heads. His new pack.


	6. Four Horses and a Dog

**Chapter 5**

**Four Horses and a Dog**

******~ O ~**  


Induction and Squad Assignment was always a hectic time. The vehicle garage was the only indoor space large to hold all the newly arrived troopers, the majority of the officers, and all soldiers not on the duty roster who took it upon themselves to look at new faces fresh from basic. Each of the three team leaders jockeyed to get the best recruits for themselves. It was made difficult for Nix and first-team, because Nix's duties as the most senior NCO required him to attend to Lieutenant Bell as the officer assigned the newly arrived dog boys.

Windward has cost Fort Wash heavily; the company was now close to half-strength. Over thirty troopers killed another forty wounded, of which only half would be returning to active duty. Nix lost twenty good soldiers to that town. He might only see five or six again, and he was going to be damned if wasn't going to get his replacements.

While Nix was occupied with his duties, the task of getting the cream of the crop fell to Warrant Officer Platt Waterman, first-team's clerk.

Waterman was non-combat administrative officer. Managing the day-to-day running of the team assigned to him generated a surprising work load, even more so considering he was one of the two dozen or so soldiers at Fort Wash who could read, write, and operate a computer.

The Emperor and Coalition States elite weren't big on reading. While not illegal, persay, they activity discouraged the common citizen from learning how to read or write. Many citizens considered it an act of patriotism to be illiterate. Dog boys, of course, were never taught more then the basics of letters and numbers, and then only when it had a military application.

Waterman, and the NCOs from the other teams worked the room, talked to the most promising dog boys, they asked questions and listened to the quickness of the reply, felt the strength in their arms and legs, inspected their teeth, and looked at care they took with their newly issued kit.

"Next!" Called Nix. He stood next to the table where the lieutenant was seated.

A big, brown labrador stepped forwards, and presented a small, lighter sized data-stick, "Private Polo, reporting for duty."

Bell took the stick and loaded into the porta-comp, he tapped a few keys and looked at the screen, "Polo, eh?"

"Er, yes sir," Polo replied carefully.

"Be silent, until you are asked a direct question," Nix said aggressively at the labrador.

Polo looked confused.

"Lower your head," Bell said as he stood up, taking up a small scanner unit from the table. The unit was plugged into the porta-comp.

Polo bowed his head as Bell waved the device over the back of his skull and neck. He tapped the unit's keypad a few times, and then waved it over a final time. Bell sat back down, and said, "You can lift your head, Private. Tell me your height and weight and breed?"

"Five foot nine and one hundred and ninety pounds, sir. Labrador, sir," Polo replied smartly.

Bell nodded as the tapped away at the computer, "Specialty?"  
"None, sir. Infantry training only, sir."

"You saying the infantry isn't anything special?" Nix growled at the recruit.

"No Sergeant Major, that's not what I meant. I meant …"

"Quit your yapping, and shut your damned mouth!"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

Bell pulled the stick out of the porta-comp and passed it back to Polo, "Private Polo, you are to be assigned to First-Team. Report to Warrant Officer Waterman." He pointed at a blonde headed man, surrounded by a clutch of dog boys, old and new.

"You're mine now, Polo," Nix said, then shouted, "Next!"

**~ O ~**

It took three hours to sort out the forty-five newly arrived dog boys. It was not as many as captain Hand had hoped for, but it would have to do.

Nix received thirteen. A good batch, he liked the look of them, Waterman had done well.

Once cleared of the duties he gathered his team in full, now thirty-three strong. Outside the summer light was getting dim. He had them standing in ranks. The new dog boys standing in one line, two paces ahead of the older dog boys.

Nixed rolled the names around in his head: Matzo, Rufus, Polo, Hickory, Rococo, Abel, Vegas, Orbit, Keno, Waddles, Tomba, Trout, Freebee.

Like all dog boys the new thirteen had only one name. It was neither first name, nor last name, it was simply their name. The name given to them when they first opened their eyes at around fiftenn days old, and unlike Humans, it was rare for two dog boys to have the same name. At the Lone Star Complex there was a central data-base which stored all information on every dog boy born or created. When a dog boy was killed, his name was returned to the pool of available names.

The new dog boys were all young, not one older then six, and fresh from the Coalition States Military Dog Pack Program. The three year program took the young pups and molded them into fierce, loyal, and obedient warriors. They had an eagerness and energy that was palpable, a look of excitement in their eyes.

Nix had been working with dog boys for more than a dozen years and he thought he could spot difference between the ones born naturally, and those born in test tubes, so-called 'Hot-Dogs.' Nowadays, maybe only one in ten were tube-born, and though they were the same in every respect, some being tall or short, strong or weak, slow or fast, nice or mean, ugly or handsome - they seemed to lack something, something _intrinsic_. When asked Nix claimed that since the spark of life hadn't created them - the spark of science had - that the 'blessing of nature' was what they were missing. Not that it mattered much, he would always say, hot-dogs fought and died as hard as natural-borns.

Integration into the unit would take a few days or a week for the pack hierarchy to be re-determined. It was a tense time for the dog packs, physical and psychological confrontation was not uncommon. More than likely the veteran pack-leaders would take the rookies aside and tell them how things are, how things worked, and how they are expected to behave. That was unusually enough. However, if that didn't work, a sound telling off might be in order. If any wayward dog boy still refused to fit into the pack, well, they were in for thorough beatings until they integrated or were driven out.

Though rare, any dog boys without a place in the pack were sent back to the Lone Star Complex.

Some were given the hardest, most mundane work under short-leash supervision, but must were deemed flawed in some way and quietly destroyed.

Nix paced in front of the new dog boys, "Welcome to Fort Wash," he called.

"We patrol an area of hundred and fifty square miles. That's a lot ground to look out for and make safe. In the last five years we've made this little sector of the Lone Star as pacified as any you'll find this far out. However, that means nothing, because we _are_ far out. We are alone out here. The nearest CS base is three hours hard drive south. By road, Lone Star City is eight hours east of here - by air, two and some. Let me repeat that; WE. ARE. ALONE."

"We're kept safe the hard way. We patrol hard and often. The majority of the locals have either joined with the Emperor or have felt his wrath. But not all. And that doesn't include the _transients_," he sneered.

"You are the Emperor's wrath. You are the very tip of his spear. You will be driven hard and deep into the body of the enemies of the Coalition States. You will kill to save mankind, and for that I salute you." Nix snapped a tight salute at the dog boys. The platoon returned his salute.

Nix dropped his hand and pointed west, "Anything that way is considered hostile. It's a dangerous no-man's land, filled to bursting with wild d-bees, sorcerers, aliens, lunatics and demons. Take serious your duties, for they are dangerous. You new thirteen replace veteran dog boys who were killed or injured in the line of duty. Most of the troopers behind you bare battle scars, and if you want to live long enough to earn some yourselves, you'd best talk to them, learn from their experience, and you'd had better damn well listen when one gives you an order."

He paused, sniffed loudly, and placed his hands on his hips, "Together, we're in this to the end."

The older dog boys in the rear ranks shouted, "To the very end!"

The front ranks startled by the sudden shout, unused to the call-and-reply of the regiment's motto.

"Corporals Roman and Red, front and center!" Nix shouted.

The greyhound and boxer walked quickly to the Nix.

"Get them shifted to the barracks and settled in."

Both chorused, "Yes, sir!"

"Then I want them do a ten mile circuit, full kit. Better yet…" He paused and grinned evilly, "First-Team's been looking a little sloppy. Everyone is going to run ten miles before heading to bed. Any dog boy who isn't here in fifteen minutes is going to wish he wasn't born. Now get moving!"

**~ O ~**

The patrol squad was working a circuit of seventy miles. A long straight drive out to Nope's Hope, then a loop to Waster's Canyons, then home via the dry river bed for which Fort Wash and the company were named. It was a long day route, usually fifteen hours or more if there were no contacts. The convoy of four Mark IX's grinded along the lonely, dusty trails. The radio crackled with conversations. Nix learned in the doorway of the driver's compartment, listening to the radio chatter.

"What did he say?" he asked Dysart.

"Something about his gearbox making a bad noise," Dysart said, then added, "Like the noise his gearbox made with your mom last night."

Nix ignored Dysart's comment, "Can he keep up?"

Dysart shrugged indifferently. Nix grunted and dropped down into the co-driver's seat and snatched up the radio-mic, "Stallion, these is Warhorse, what's the status of your track?"

"Warhorse, Stallion. I got a grinding noise from the gearbox … it's a battle to get 'er to switch gears."

"Solid Copy. What's your top speed?"

"I reckon I can get 'er into fourth gear, Warhorse. Repeat, fourth gear."

Nix spat in the foot-well in frustration.

"Hey now, Sergeant Major, no spitting on my ride," Dysart said mockingly offended.

"Shut it, Ray."

He keyed the mic, "Stallion, keep it tight," then switched channels, "All tracks, all tracks, Stallion is suffering technical problems, drop speed to twenty-five m.p.h's. Combat spread."

The four tracks moved smoothly into diamond formation, _Palomino_ riding point, with _Warhorse_ and limping _Stallion_ side by side hundred meters behind, and _Colt_ a further 50 meters back, bringing up the rear. Each track carried ten dog boys.

"I think I've got a target," the radio suddenly popped.

"Say again, Palomino, say again," Nix said, snatching up the radio mic.

It was after midday and they had travelled through Nope's Hope, a series of crags which often attracted various degenerates and general lowlifes on the run. They had spent an hour hunting around and though there had been some old tracks, a few old scents, rubbish piles, but no signs of recent occupation. Having just entered a region called Waster's Canyon, a dangerous and confusing collection of canyons and buttes, Moy called out, "I think I've got a target, by the way the dogs are twitchin'-out I think it's a soupie."

Nix could hear whining and growling in the background.

Dysart made a spooky noise and wiggled his finger around, he spoke in a mock little boys voice, "Oh no, not a soupie! Please save me, Sergeant Major."

"Palomino slow down and identity target…"

"Targets spotted, they're engaging," Moy cut him off, his voice roaring, "Light 'em up! Fire! FIRE!"

"Moy! Respond!"

There was a fearsome squeal of white noise, then Moy's voice crackled, "… 'uck that! Was that lightening? Deploying troopers, now! Red, kill those freaks! Warhorse, Warhorse swing right, I've got half a dozen soupies bottled behind a low ridge, but they'll flank. "

"Solid Copy Moy," Nix turned to Dysart, "Gun it, boy!"

"Yesss sir," he hissed with relished and the seven and half ton armored troop transport roared forwards.

Nix's track sweep around the corner of a canyon wall and he found himself in the middle of a fearsome firefight. _Palomino_ had stopped behind a pile of rocks, giving the vehicle partial cover. The roof turret spat laser bolts. Dog boys hunkered down behind the rock pile or advanced to additional cover. A towering man was single-handedly battling was a twelve foot tall, half-humanoid, half-slug/snake monster, without a helmet no less.

Darkcloak.

The big psi-stalker had managed to swing himself on the creature's back, riding it like a bucking bronco. He mercilessly hacking at its neck and face with a long, thick, white bladed, S-shaped knife. His hate twisted face and ruthless ferocity were both wonderful and terrifying to behold. Inhuman, even.

**~ O ~**

Psi-stalkers were considered by many to a sub-race of man, mutants. Though, once while pulling guard duty Nix heard a scientist say they weren't a sub-race at all, but actually, the next step in human evolution. They looked like humans, only more unkind, more feral. They were uniformly pale-skinned and completely hairless. They often decorated their bodies with tattoos and piercings, which did nothing to decrease the general consensus that they were degenerate savages. Those traits alone did not separate them from humanity; what did was psi-stalkers could somehow 'feel' or 'sense' the unearthly energies of creatures not of this world and humans who tapped into those energies.

Exactly like dog boys, another race if mutants.

Possessing towering and powerful builds they were athletic and aggressive, and like the mutant canines, they lived to hunt the supernatural. Though, the psi-stalkers did it, _literally_, to live. Somehow they feed on the energies released from their dying foes. A freakish ability still not fully understood.

In the days before the dog boys were created, the Coalition States quickly realized the benefits these mutant humans could bring and offered them a place in their armed forces. They preformed above and beyond all expectations, but as they were considered mutants, they were treated as second-class citizens. To this day, they still are.

When the Lone Star Complex began turning out mutant canines the high command saw that the psi-stalkers and psi-hounds complimented each other. The hounds needed 'humans' to command them and the stalkers need to hunt to live. In a moment of brilliance, the Coalition combined these two mutants and created a truly devastatingly efficient supernatural hunter-killer team. In the years since the policy which placed psi-stalkers in command of dog packs came into effect, untold numbers of supernatural creatures, wielders-of-magic, and being of psychic powers have been killed.

One of their greatest weapons with which, ironically, they could save a humanity that continued to subjugate mutants like them.

**~ O ~**

Dysart drove his armored personal carrier like a track-speedster managed a hovercycle on race night - all skill and grit.

Loud-mouthed and obnoxious Ray Dysart was intelligent and possessed a quick and dirty mind. Young for a vehicle driver, a position usually reserved for older soldiers' transitioning off of front-line infantry duty, Dysart was so good that Nix had personally selected him as his own driver, not that he let Dysart know that.

The driver jerked the steering column hard and the track slue sideways for thirty feet coming facing one of the monstrous creatures. The horrible creature turned to face the speeding EPC. Its eyes were deathlike black orbs and its hide was mottled green and brown scales. Acid drool dripped from its huge, teeth filled maw.

Dysart screamed in a high-pitched voice, "Ole, bitch!" and slammed down on the accelerator. They hit the creature doing forty miles per hour and crushed the being beneath its tracks. Dysart whooped loudly, pumping his arm.

"Let us out, you idiot!" roared Nix from the co-driver seat, "Ray, let us out!"

"Oh, right, I forgot you were there," Dysart chirped, and braked hard.

Everyone, except Dysart who had thoughtfully put on his safety belt, slid forward abruptly. A domino of profanity hurled from the passenger area. Nix directed his abuse at Dysart's female relations. Having recovered himself the NCO rushed from the cockpit, giving Dysart's head a hard shove as he passed. "Out, out, deploy!" he hollered as he rushed through the vehicle.

Dog boys leapt up, weapons raised and teeth bared, and rushed for the exits.

Outside was controlled chaos. At least a dozen of the monsters slithered about, lashing at the Coalition soldier and dog boy troopers with bolts of lightning that magically manifested in their hands or slashed with huge claws when they got to close. Some spat acid corrosive enough to metal in super-alloy.

Roman pushed around the side of the track, and leapt up, grabbing a handhold and scampered on top of the vehicle. He dropped to a knee, brought his rifle up and looked around him.

_Palomino_ was pumping laser bolts at the far canyon wall, while Red and two squads advanced, one fire team laying down fire, while the others advanced, the veterans in his teams executing the move with skill. He saw the corporal blasting away, covering Oak while the thug bayoneted a creature in the throat as it reared up. Only Oak insisted on using a vibro-bayoneted.

Darkcloak, the quiet and grim psi-stalker, had managed to drive his opponent to the ground and had nearly severed its head. His face was turned to the sky, he was screaming in victory as the creature died and he soaked up its life-energies.

_Colt_ had quickly sped up and passed the limping _Stallion_ and pulled up beside the first track, the dog boys deploying aggressively under two Private First Class troopers, Ban and Delta. The little terrier's angry voice could be heard over the din of the battle.

Slowed down, _Stallion_ was just entering the immediate area and Nix had instructed that they carry on and cover the extreme right flank. The track was making a harsh grinding noise as it went by.

Below him, Roman saw Nix leading a push with two squads at a couple of creatures behind a pile of rock debris, Igual faithfully at his side. The sergeant major led the new dog boys and their eagerness was a sight to behold. They ebbed and flowed from cover to cover, held only in check by Nix's commanding voice. If he had not been there, they would have run straight at them, throwing their rifles aside to attack and kill up-close.

The turret beside Roman cracked loudly and bolts of light pummeled a line along the face of the canyon. The greyhound swung his rifle around, hunting. He spotted one ugly creature behind a rock pile and he zeroed in. He pulled the trigger and was rewarded with evil hiss/howl as it flailed and dropped down out of sight.

A bright light danced behind the rocks and the creature swung back on its huge tail, rearing up and lashing out with huge bolts of lightning at Roman.

In the blink of an eye the greyhound had leapt fully from the track and landing well, was up and running. His powerful legs and deep chest let him reach speeds in excess of forty miles per hour. He pulsed at the creature causing it to duck. He zigzagged quickly, so the when the creature reappeared he would not be where it remembered him, and raced for the rock pile.

He leapt up just as the breast rose again, welding electricity in its paws. Roman did not hesitate to give it a face full of deadly laser bolts.

Its head blow apart in a spray of meat chucks and blood mist.

Quick on his feet and ruthless, the greyhound leapt over the headless body and blasted away at the next creature, putting a dozen steaming holes through its torso and neck. The huge thing collapsed to the ground and Roman threw down himself next to it. He used its body as both a shield and prop for his rifle. He resumed sniping.

The men and mutant canines in their tanks and armor were mortals and full of the faults and weakness of all mortals. Comparatively frail bodies and delicate emotions. Magic and supernatural creatures, great and mighty, were their fear and bane. The snake-creatures were strong and brimming with fearsome magic. True terrors to the men, and without the Coalition's gift of technology they would have been slaughtered.

That technology leveled the playing field. Mortals could now battle supernatural creatures. When they combined that advanced technology with hard-training, unit-tactics, and a belief in the righteousness of their cause, few forces on planet could overcome a face-to-face meeting with the Emperor's Deadboys.

As if the prove the point; with Darkcloak howling as he ripped apart another creature, Red and his team wounding a trio with dozens of laser shots and finishing the job with blades, and Roman having killed two snake-monster single-handedly, the rest of the creatures fled for their lives.

**~ O ~**

Nix put two blasts into the back of one creature, setting it alight with sun-matter.

He waved for his teams to advance and finish the job.

"One's getting away!" a dog boy yelled.

"I'm on it," called Nix, "My team with me!" he yelled.

Nix ran with a half a dozen dog boys after the slithering monstrosity. The dog boys quickly outpaced him. He tore around a bend and spotted the tail of the creature slip into a dark cave entrance, his dog troopers in hot pursuit.

He roared at them, "Hold, HOLD! Do not go in there!"

All but one of his dogs obeyed and stopped just short of racing into the hole, their eagerness to kill evident in their bared fangs and aggressive stances, they shivered and drooled with anticipation of killing supernatural creatures.

One of the new dog boys, Freebee, was oblivious to everything except his prey and raced head long into the complete darkness.

Nix ran up screaming, "No! No! No!"

"Secure the area, secure the area!" He roared and pointed each way down the canyon, "Fifty meters, fifty meters." He had to scream to get their attention, even harshly shoving and kicking some who were not paying attention.

The hunting instinct was a part of their genetic make-up and they could easily lose themselves to it. The last thing Nix wanted was for his troopers to run into what was most certainly the lair of the horrible snake monsters, especially not knowing what waited down there. At times like these he would have loved to have a few human soldier carrying plasma-throwers. A few squirts of liquid plasma would have the hole cleared out in a matter of minutes. The dog boy's aggressive style of combat prohibited them for carrying them. The risk of the vulnerable plas-tanks being detonated was far too high.

Dog boys raced off in either direction, checking for other openings.

"You lot, find a way to the top of cliffs. Go!" three dog boys raced off.

"Eloy, watch the entrance!" The doberman hunkered down by the opening, breathing in the deeply the unnatural smells coming from below.

"The rest of you, get into some damned cover," Nix roared.

"Dog one-seven-nine! Where are you?" Nix shouted into the comm.

Freebee's death howls replied back over the comm-unit moments before they eerily echoing up the dark passageway.

Nix swore hard.

"Dog Fifty-One!" he called into his comm-link.

"Yes, sir," snapped back Alcala's voice.

"I need you."

"On my way, sir."

"Bring your bag of tricks!"

While he had a hard time controlling his troopers, they were all whining and howling with eagerness, Nix was pleased they were such born-killers. No human soldier could compare to their willingness to destroy the supernatural, no matter how committed or crazy.

Alcala and half a dozen more dog boys trotted up. The german sheppard had a heavy bag of explosives.

Nix waved them to him, "Alcala, this is the only entrance we've found, but they've got to have a backdoor somewhere. What have you got?"

"You know the length or depth, sir?"

"No. Freebee ran in, he's dead. I haven't allowed anyone else in."

Alcala scratched his chin while he thought, and began digging through his black bag. "Sir," he said, "I've a C-class fusion block. That should be enough to bring down any tunnels for miles around."

"Delivery?"

Alcala smiled and cocked his head sideways, "The old fashioned way."

Nix laughed at his fearlessness, "Matzo, Orbit, Vegas, time to show your stuff. Accompany Alcala while he makes his delivery."

They barked happily.

"Go boy, go!" Nix said and pushed the dog-grenadier towards the dark entrance. The four stalked into the darkness.

**~ O ~**

"Then what happened?" asked Major Lavrov.

"That was the last I saw of them, sir." Nix said. He was seated across a desk from the Major, who was taking notes on a computer, his stylus waving back and forth. Beyond the window behind him late summer sun shorn brightly, the sun was near the horizon and the sky was awash with colors.

"Continue." He said.

Nix coughed lightly, "After Privates Alcala, Matzo, Orbit and Vegas entered the cave entrance; we waited for approximately seven minutes. At that time a subterranean explosion occurred. I can only assume it was the fusion block being detonated by Private Alcala."

"Was Private Alcala certificated for ordnance demolitions?"

"He had passed all required training for EOD."

"Still, a C-class fusion block is a serious piece of the hardware."

"Alcala was serious dog boy," Nix snipped.

The Major paused and glanced at Hand who was leaning on a nearby wall. The Captain stared back.

"Moving on. After the denotation, what did you do?"

"Afterwards, we attempted to establish contact with Alcala or his team. We were unable to do so. The rest of the dog boys agreed the immediate area was without supernatural threat, therefore, we continued with our patrol, encountering no further hostile contacts."

The major picked up a printout and said, "I see here on the equipment return inventory there a worrying lack of any high grade explosive. What happened to the rest of the CS issue hardware?"

"I took it upon myself to blow the god-damn canyon apart."

The major raised an eye-brow, "Five more C-Class fusion block and your full complement of ten A-Class?"

"And three cases of plasma grenades," Nix said, "Sir."

"Why?"

"Our dogs died in there yesterday. That Canyon has cost Fort Wash dozens killed or seriously wounded since we started patrolling it. That place is a disgusting blight and deserves to be erased from the earth. Next time I return there, I'll turn it into a glass sand dune."

"Very touching, however, you will do no such thing. Not least, while I'm here."

"Of course, sir," Nix replied smoothly.

The major frowned, unconvinced, "That'll be all for now."

Taking that as his dismissal, he rose, saluted, and left the room. Hand did not follow him out, but he could hear the man's raised voice as he walked away.


	7. Fight Square

**Chapter 6**

** Fight Square**

**~ O ~**

Patrols came and went. Soldiers arrived and left, some in body bags. Lavrov stalked the base for weeks at a time, and then he'd jump a transport and disappear, only to reappear later more petty and demanding than ever before. Summer turned to autumn, and autumn turned cold. Winter had arrived with a fearsome blast. A snowstorm dumped two feet of snow in a single night. In the morning the dog boys ran out, forming into their packs and began a vast snowball fight. Their laughter and howls of delight uplifting to everyone who heard them.

Hand called a meeting and ceased circuit patrols for the time being, they would only visit the nearby towns and villages. After seeing the chaos below he called off all standard duties, except emergency staff, for the day, the base was to enjoy itself. Nix volunteered to act as day-chief, but Hand said he'd hold down the fort so that everyone had a chance to go make snowmen.

After the meeting the three senior sergeants stood on western 'wing', the patio was being shoveled by a dog boy so desperate to go play he was whimpering ceaselessly. Nix looked at the dog boy, Docket, from 2nd Platoon. He elbowed Ungar and nodded to the dog boy.

Ungar looked around, "Go on, Docket. Go play."

He yipped excitedly and bolted from the patio. A minute later, he ran full speed from the main entrance and with an impressive flying tackle plowed Igual into a huge snow mound. The two began a fearsome, though playful, wrestling match.

Nix smiled and supped his pipe, Ungar smoke a cigarette, Bluebird did not smoke. The three had been discuss their favorite topic of the moment, Lavrov.

"He's an ass," Ungar said definitely, "Though that Darkcloak is good. Real good."

"Yeah he is, some of the stuff I've seen him do," Bluebird said shaking her head, "… well, we're lucky to have him."

Ungar stared at the playing dog boys below. Roman was leading a success advance against his head dog boy, Judge. Roman's pack moved with support fire from Red's snowball launching team. Packed snow flew with abandon. "Check out Roman."

Nix smiled as he watched, impressed with his tactic acumen and courage, "And that's why he's in charge."

"What's Lavrov's problem anyways?" asked Bluebird, "That creep is always skulking around, sniffing for trouble."

Nix supped on his pipe a few times, "I don't think he's got a problem, as such. Firstly, I think he's up to something. I just don't know what, yet. Secondly, he just doesn't understand us. He wants us to be like all those other, pretty little spit-and-polish, by-the-book regiments back in Chi-Town or Missouri. What he doesn't understand is that we have to make do with what we've got," he waved with his pipe to the wide open around the base, "… a whole lot of nothing."

**~ O ~**

Once a month Fort Wash's dog boy soldiers had a fighting match. They did it keep in fighting shape, to evaluate the pack hierarchy, and to enjoy kicking, punching and beating the hell out of each other. It took place outside when the weather was good and in vehicle shed #3 when it was not, like tonight. The training mats would be brought up from the gymnasium and laid side by side, making a square about twenty feet at a side. The maintenance shed rang with barks, howls, and yells. It stank of motor oil, hydraulic fluid, body odor, and dog breath.

The human staff did not usually participate, though big Nix could sometimes be talked into going a few rounds with a dog boy. The humans did however bet the odds and gambled on their favorite fighters. Roman, wearing only black knee-length trousers and a black leather belt, was a safe gamblers favorite.

The greyhound stood unmoving, staring at his yelling opponent. Polo was big, big and healthy, possessing the leanness or tightness of body that a dog boy with years of combat experience develops.

The labrador bounced around, throwing mock punches and taunting Roman, "Come on, _skinny_! What you waiting for?"

Roman's fists were clinched at his side, his blue eyes narrow and intense.

"I can't believe a stick like you thinks he can take me, a _real_ dog boy," Polo said, slapping his broad chest.

"Why do they call you 'One-Punch Roman? Is it because that all it takes to put you down …" Polo suddenly lunged, aiming to tackle the greyhound. Roman stepped aside and lightly pushed the new trooper him past. The crowd hooted with delight as Polo stumbled.

Polo spun around snarling with anger. Two, three, four times Polo lunged and Roman moved lithely out of the way, pushing or pulling the younger dog boy away from him.

"Come on! Fight me!" Polo roared, getting angry as the crowd mocked his efforts. 'Fresh meat! Fresh Meat! Fresh Meat!' they chanted at him, or worse, made insulting little puppy-dog barking sounds at him.

Roman stepped forward so suddenly and launched a blindingly fast punch straight at Polo's muzzle. The crack was heard over the jeering crowd. Polo paused for a moment, hands clasped to the nose, then he fell back on his butt, rolling around, and howling with pain.

"That's why they call me One-Punch," Roman snarled, towering over the floored dog boy, "'cause that's all it takes!"

The crowd roared with delight. Money exchanged hands. Ban pushed into the ring, helping the injured Labrador to the his feet and walking him out of the circle to where the other company dog boy medics waited, being usually gentle with the weeping rookie.

Roman turned around and held up his fist, surprising large considering he was so skinny, and glared at the crowd. "Anyone else want a taste of 'Roman's number 1: fuck your face'?" he asked.

Over the whooping and hollering a deep voice called out, "I'll have a go."

The crowd _Oooooohhhhh__ed_with excitement as they saw Fabian walk into the circle, they had never fought before, this was to be a good match. Roman was tall and skinny but his speed and intensity made him a fine boxer, and many had come to fear his famous one-punch. The massive Saint Bernard was a towering monument of strength, a brawler more than a boxer. He was also undefeated in the fight-square.

Roman grinned, liking a challenge, "Ha! Alright!"

"I ain't no pup and I've never lost, you know," Fabian boomed.

"I know. Hell, you might win again tonight … but I'll make damn sure you don't want to fight me again."

Sergeant Ungar, ringmaster for the evening, called the match, "My furry friends, what a surprise this evening! Roman has accepted a challenge from Fabian, our very own personal super-heavyweight-champion!" The dog boys clamored happily at the unexpected match-up. Roman was more a medium-weight fighter, Fabian was well outside his usually opponents.

"Roman's gonna have to watch himself, Fabian looks hungry and a greyhound snack looks to be on the menu!"

The dog boys laughed and clapped, elbowed and shoved to get the best views.

Ungar paused for dramatic effort, taking his time to look left, then right, then yelled, "Have at it boys!"

Roman launched forward, fists up - feigning left, right, then left again, using his speed to force Fabian into the defensive stance. The greyhound leapt right, flying around Fabian's left side, and launched a massive right hook, cracking the saint bernard in the eye. Roman's famous one-punch would have floored anyone else, but Fabian was simply too big to go down in one punch. Though even he, and his three hundred and eighty pounds of bulk and muscle, stumbled.

Roman was on him in heartbeat, throwing three hard punches at Fabian's face and head. Fabian, now wary of Roman's speed and agility, aimed to remove that advantage and grappled his around the waist. The greyhound nearly squeezed out of the wrestling hold by ramming both elbows into the saint bernard's neck. He was rewarded by being slammed muzzle first in the mat.

Though the fight never left Roman, he roared and kicked and bucked, the match was over quickly once he was on the mat. Fabian weathering attacks the split his lips, rocked his teeth in their sockets, and numbed his brain from the force of their blow. He used his massive strength to force Roman onto his back, then sat on his chest, took both his skinny wrists in one massive hand, and pounded the greyhound senseless with the other.

"Whoaaa, Fabian! Don't kill the corporal!" shouted Ungar, rushing forward intervening.

Ban was there a moment later pulling Fabian off of the semi-conscience greyhound. The little terrier shoved the saint bernard, who was nearly twice his height, towards the medic's table. Fabian stumbled away and slipped. Hands shot out to catch him and get him back onto his feet. With the help of Tito, Ban half-carried, half-dragged Roman to the first-aid table.

It was important that they took care of the injured. While Captain Hand didn't particularly agree with the fight-square, he let it happen because it kept his pack hard-edged. He threatened after Fireteeth, of third-team, lost an eye that he'd band them from continuing if any more serious injuries occurred. The three psi-hound medics, Ban, Keys, and Mallard, took special care of the wounded and the ringmasters often stopped the fights before any serious injuries could occur.

Ringmaster Ungar called the next match, "Great fight boys! Really great. Let's hear it for Roman and Fabian!" The crowed exploded with cheer, clapping and whooping loudly.

"Well, tonight we have the rematch everyone has been waiting for," Ungar rubbed his hands together gleefully and with a showman's flair throwing them wide he yelled, "… Red versus OAK!!"

The assembled dog boys howled and barked in even more excitement. This particular match up always got the crowed worked up. Red and Oak had shipped into the company together, though they were from different training units, and quickly struck up a strong friendship. Red was iconicly powerful and with his recent promotion had something to prove. Oak, ugly, top-heavy, obscenely strong, and down-right mean, hated to lose.

"Corporal Red, won last month's match-up, breaking Private Oak's three match winning streak. Will Oak get his revenge, or will big Red prove to be too much for our muscled meat-head?" Ungar shouted, as the two stood on opposite sides of the fight-square, flexing and snarling.

"Ready, ready … have at it boys!"

**~ O ~**

Nix watched as the big dog boys race straight at each other and collide with car crash force. It was like watching two titans battle it out. He neither clapped nor cheered, feeling that it would have been inappropriate to be seen encouraging one dog boy over another. Favoritism was an easy way to destroy a packs bound. That said, he always enjoyed watching these two brawl. He always liked Oak, like a blunt and violent tool, the muscle-bound thug was ideally suited for heavy infantry duty. Red on the other hand, he had high hopes for Red. A thinker with courage, he could make something of himself in this Man's army. With a few more years' experience he could be a dog boy sergeant, no easy task to achieve considering they were thought of as expendable animals. It was rare for psi-hounds to be elevated in rank, only truly special creatures with inborn leadership qualities ever made it.

Roman should have made sergeant years ago.

Thinking about Roman made Nix frown; he had held him back long enough, out of fear of losing his favor hound. It wasn't fair. He didn't think of dog boys as smart man-shaped animals, rather as mutants canines birthed from man's great mind. They were the Children of Man. In his mind they had souls, and therefore were living beings. They were proud, selfless defenders of Humanity and they deserved respect and fairer treatment. Not citizenship, no, they were still mutants afterall, but fairer treatment and rewards consummate to skill and service. He would see to getting Roman his promotion.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and glanced round, Captain Hand. The officer was watching the fight with a keen eye and after a few more moments he directed Nix away with a nod of his head.

They walked in silence for a long while, the roaring sound of the fight-square fading quickly. After a while the only sound was of boot heels thumping the metal decking. Suddenly, Hand pulled him up short. The captain glanced both ways down the corridor, looking worried.

"Bad news, Simon," Hand said.

"What?"

"I just got word…" he seemed to be struggling, " … I've heard."

"Arn, what's the issue?"

"I just got word. We're being displaced."

Nix stared in frank disbelief.

"Two months we'll be back at Fort Lone Star."

Nix shook his head, "Any particular reason behind this nonsense?"

"War, Simon. War."

**~ O ~**

Nix had gathered all the non-commissioned officers in the lounge of the NCO's ward-n-quarters. It was a tight fit, nearly fifty men and women sitting, standing or leaning around the room. Nix stood at the center of the half-circle, arms-crossed, looking at the floor.

He was not looking forward to having this conversation. Even knowing Hand was giving the same talk to the officers and administration staff at this every moment did not help. The same talk would not be held with the dog boys – they ranked so low no decisions were ever discussed with them, even out of basic courtesy.

Nix raised a hand and the murmuring slowing died away.

When it had, he looked up, his eyes wandering from face to face – Malchus, Ungar, Gisco, Moy, Dysart, Blunt the slightly-mad munitions officer, Reneto, Skaklad, Tanner, Darkcloak, and all the others waiting for him to begin. Bluebird, watching him.

"Afternoon. I know you're all busy, so I'll be quick and to the point."

He cleared his throat, paused for a moment, "Fort Wash in no longer an interest of the Coalition States or the Administrator of Lone Star State."

The soldiers in the room exchanged confused looks, though some frowned or closed their eyes, guessing what was to come.

"As of two months from today, Fort Wash is closed for business."

Somebody whistled sharply.

"What's gonna happen to the company, sergeant major?" shouted Ribaddi from the back of the room.

"I was just coming to that. Wash Company is to return to Fort Lone Star and join with the other companies of the Tenth. Once there and fully assembled, the unit will undergo an extensive review and eventually be reassigned."

Though Nix said it as calmly as he would have as if he was ordering extra e-clips from the quartermaster, the weight behind his words left the room speechless.

They were to leave Fort Wash.

It was shock to them, as this had been their home for years. Many had been born grungers, sludgers or downsiders, the lowest of the low, and their rooms at Fort Wash were more home then whatever shack or slum hovel they grew up in. Moreover, they represented the professional warrior class of the States, men and women who choose to make war their vocation, for the Emperor, for Mankind. They were the backbone of Fort Wash, and their kind were backbone of the Army of the Coalition States. These were lifers, and they had made something of themselves here, earning ranks, honor and pride.

Some had even picked up sweethearts in Holmes. Holmes would certainly fall into economic distress when the company departed. Once the income dried up, the mercenary protectors would leave, and then town's people would be at the mercies of the ruthless wastes.

Dysart was the first to break the stunned silence with his usual comical, ironic tone, throwing up his hands and shaking his head, "And here I was thinking we were doing a bang up job bitch-slapping soupies and freaks."

"Yeah! Chief, don't they think we've been working hard enough out here in the ass-end of the good old CS? "

"We've got second rate kit and hand-me-down weapons and we've managed to knock up a kill ratio better then any of the other out-companies."

"I don't want to shack up with the other companies … incompetent assholes, the lot of 'em!"

People were beginning to shout; at him, at each other, out of frustration. The mood had soured quicker then Nix had anticipated, "Settle down," he ordered, "This has nothing to do with our record nor is it a slight on Wash's reputation."

"Like hell it ain't!" roared Hanno, kicking a metal trash can. It sailed across the room, smacking the wall with a great metallic clang.

"Enough!" shouted Nix, his patience at an end. "I've never seen such blubbering! You'd do well to dry your eyes, boys and girls, 'cause you all damn well know what the army is like. You get your orders, you carry them out. You get up, and get on. So quit your whining."

He scowled nastily about the room, only Darkcloak seemed unperturbed. He let the silence hang for a few more moments, knowing they needed time to pull themselves together.

He continued less harshly, "When we arrive at the base, everyone will get some time off, based on length of duty and service record," he said, then added, "Which means Dysart will be getting about six hours."

Dysart shrugged in a _what-can-I-do_ manner. A muted chuckled rippled about the room.

"Alright, two months people," Nix held up two fingers, "I want this to be clean and by the numbers. No mistakes. You'll be getting your duty assignments shortly. Dismissed."

The soldiers broke up, muttering and swearing to themselves.

"Ungar, Bluebird, my office."

**~ O ~**

In Nix's little office the three sat in chairs facing each other, like they had dozens of times before.

"Simon, this is balls," Ungar said.

"Complete balls," agreed Bluebird.

Nix shrugged, "Tell me about it. Captain's not happy about it either."

"That lofty son-of-a-bitch Lavrov …" started Unger

"No Karl, it's not him. Even Colonel Santos has nothing to do with this. This could come only straight from the top. General Kashbrook. "

Ungar leaned back in his chair, "What's she thinking? We've been the forefront of her policy to secure the Northern Quadrant for what, ten years. The Tenth has marched and fought by her orders and this is what we get?"

"Karl, you sound like that moron Hanno," Bluebird said.

"Yeah, seriously, since when did you whine like a first month private?" smirked Nix.

Ungar sighed, rocked back on two legs of the chair, put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling, thinking.

Nix glanced at Bluebird and caught her staring at him with an odd look on her face. She smiled at him. He gave a slight smile back and looked away.

"What's gonna happen when we get to the City?" she asked.

"Like I said, reassignment, review and redeployment. That said, the captain and I were talking and he thinks there may be some personnel transfers."

"Not surprising considering the magnitude of a triple-R," Ungar said.

"We could use the extra bodies," Bluebird added.

"True, but it's the type of transfers that worry me."

They both looked at him curiously.

"Wash Company has a higher than normal concentration of dog boys. Hell, first-team is made up of all dogs and me. Makes me think squads are likely to be transferred to other companies, or, even other regiments. Honestly, there is no way of telling, though Command has never liked the ratio of mutant canines to human troopers, so I think it's fairly likely the transferred will be made up with new, human, recruits."

Ungar placed his hands over his face and swore loudly into his palms. His chair snapped to the floor with loud bang.

Bluebird stared sadly, "my dogs," she mumbled.

"I know how you feel, Tabby." Nix said sincerely, placed a hand on her knee and told them both, "I'll do what I can to keep the company as together as possible, but we're small cogs in big machine that does not like exceptions, remember that, always."

Ungar snorted, "Balls, man … balls."

Nix nodded in agreement, then said, "On a happier note, you two will be getting at least two months off, if not more."

Unger smiled, Bluebird just shrugged.

"Think hard about where you want to go, 'cause if my guess is right, it may be the last time you'll get a serious leave for some years to come."

"Where do you think we'll be routed?" asked Ungar.

"I don't know for sure. Triple-r should take six months, maybe eight, then the Captain thinks we'll head north … maybe to face off against the bugs or tackle the magic cities."

"Hot damn! Xititicix or besieging sorcerer strongholds, not much of choice there. Couldn't we just get a nice occupation gig babysitting retro-heads?"

Nix smile, "Hah, not with your luck, Karl."

"I know you're an Iron Man, Simon, but I'm a man of the wide-open south. Lone Star's in my blood. The thought of all those forests fill me with dread."

Nix grunted, "It's been … uhh … nearly ten years since I last saw Iron Heart. Forget the trees, it's the winters you should worry about. Cold enough to freeze your balls off, they are."

"Even mine?" smirked Bluebird.

"Oh yeah, even yours, it's that cold."

"Give me sunny, warm wastes any day," said Ungar wistfully.

"To the end, eh?" Bluebird said with a half-smile.

The other two men shook their heads, "Yeah, to very damned end."


	8. The Long Hunt pt 1

**Chapter 7 **

**The Long Hunt, pt. I**

~ O ~

"I swear by all that is good," Nix was saying to the Quartermaster, "if you don't get this packed up by the time I get back, I'm going to cover you in meat sauce and lock you into the dog-boy's barracks." Blunt smiled lopsidedly, "Right, big guy, I swear I'll put away my toys," he patted a large weapon affectionately.

"Blunt …" Nix began, but then stopped himself, "Nevermind. Come on Ungar." They moved on, exiting the armory and heading through the basement, passing work parties and sentries. The overhead fluorescents made their skin look pale and unhealthy, especially in contrast to their black fatigues.

"Simon!"

Looking around he spotted Bell, the lieutenant was walking quickly towards him, waving at him.

The two sergeants stopped and waited for the officer to catch up, Nix tossed an easy salute. Ungar kept his hands in his pockets.

Bell nodded at them, "Simon, Karl."

"Sir," Nix replied.

"Captain wants to see you."

"I'll go right away."

"Right, later," the officer said and departed. Nix tapped his forehead quickly. Ungar's hands never left his pockets, his lip curled slightly as the man walked off.

Moving down the corridor the two men entered the lift-elevator, Ungar asked, "How can you call him 'sir' or even salute him?"

Nix slapped Ungar's arm lightly, "You salute the rank, not the man."

"Yeah, sure, but a salute is meant a sign of respect. I can't salute Ding-Dong, he's completely incompetent."

"Yeah, I know," Nix said, "remember when he drove that Mark IX into a wall," Nix laughed, "He thought he'd put it into reverse, when he'd put it into drive!"

Ungar could not help but grin, "Or how about the time his managed to lock himself into a maintenance closet. He jammed the hinges shut trying to get out. We had to use a blowtorch."

The elevator stopped, a little bell dinged, and the doors slid opened. Nix clapped his hands together and laughed as he walked into the command and control center, "Damn it, he's completely worthless!"

Hand looked up from the table he was standing at, his eyebrow raised. Nix shook his head and ambled up to the table.

"Boys," Hand nodded, "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, just talking about ol' Ding-Dong. You needed something?"

"Read this," he said and passed along a yellow, printed status-sheet. Nix read it over quickly then passed it to Ungar. The younger sergeant frowned as he read the note slowly, his literacy skills not as developed.

"Not the best timing, sir," Ungar said.

Hand nodded, "That comes straight from the top. Nothing we can do about it."

"I'll deal with it," Nix said.

"No, I can't afford to lose you right now. Or Ungar, for that matter," Hand said. "Simon, put a team together. I want some real hard-heads on this. Put one of the more independently-minded in charge. Put them on the hunt, if they're not back by the time we leave, they can meet us back at Lone Star City. Give me a list of names and I'll get all the orders into the system, they'll be able to travel the whole of Lone Star without any trouble."

Nix frowned, he did not like the idea of sending dog-boys out on their own; psi-hounds did not perform well without supervision. "I'll have them to you in an hour, sir."

~ O ~

Nix went directly to the dog boy's quarters. As he opened the main double doors, the stink of a hundred psi-hounds punched his nostrils. It smelled of fur, bad breath, and dog. There was a main aisle down the center of the room, with other aisles between the bunks. The troopers slept in three-tiered bunk beds, with their personal chests located under the lowest bunk. Not much for bed-making, they often slept on a pile of blankets and discarded clothing.

As Nix strolled through, he was master to them all, some troopers would nod to him, others would salute. Oak walked out of the shower block, nearly bowling Nix over. He stopped himself awkwardly. He was wearing only a towel about his waist and his fur was fluffy and clean. He smelled heavily of lavender. Oak, a brutal killer which every other soldier, mutant canine or human alike, respected or feared was one of the few troopers who made it a habit of washing himself with scented bath shampoo – and in the past he had hospitalized others who mocked his grooming habits.

"Sergeant Major," Oak grunted.

"Carry on, Private," he patted him on the back.

Roman's bunk was at the end of the main aisle way, against the wall. As a sign of his status, he slept on a single bed and not bunk-beds. From the end of the room he could survey the entire barracks, and on occasion, he would leap up and sprint the length of the room and back. The corporal was sitting on his bed, his knees pulled up to his ears, arms wrapping around his legs, looking surprisingly harmless. He was chatting with Judge and Khan, the other two senior psi-hounds. Judge was a dark-coated husky and Khan a big one-eyed Rottweiler.

The greyhound looked up as Nix ambled up, "Sir."

"Boys," Nix replied, nodding to the other two. They smiled and nodded back.

"How goes it, sir?" asked Khan.

"Things are tip-top, Khan, tip-top. You two mind giving me a moment with Roman?"

The other two departed quickly and Nix sat himself on the edge of the nearest bed, "Roman, I've got an ugly job for you."

The greyhound raised an eyebrow.

"Get five dogs together, a hunting party."

Roman nodded, "Who, or what, are we hunting?"

Nix sniffed and looked around, watching dog boys. They were different in so many ways, yet, they dreamed, loved, hated, cried, laughed, joked, played pranks, killed, died, and had unique personality traits and quarks like any human being. It shouldn't have come as a surprise to Nix that some were traitors too, though sadly, it always did.

"Ferals, Roman. You're hunting runaway dog boys."

~ O ~

Six dog boys were ready to leave Fort Wash a few hours later, packs on their backs or slung from their shoulders. The cold early spring air turned their breath to clouds. Each wore armor and carried weapons of non-Coalition issue. They totted typical merc gear; with makes of the likes of Huntsman or Bushman body armor and Northern Gun and Wilk's laser rifles. Regardless of what they wore, few people would mistake a pack of psi-hounds as anything other than a squad of Coalition troopers, but even if it tricked a few, it was worth the effort. All the equipment was in peak working condition but scruffy, dirty and dusty. Roman led the way, with Rain, Korbel, Fable, Hippo and Dice making up his hunting party. Each one was a veteran trooper, all with experience at tracking fugitives – commonly called Longhunting.

They stood at attention in the yard. Simon was talking to them, giving a few last tips and suggestions. With a deep rumble a weathered looking Big Boss ATV reversed out of the vehicle garage, Blunt's head leaning out of the driver's side window. Shaped like a large dune buggy the quad was tan colored and heavy looking. With its beefy engine and rugged temperament the Big Boss was a popular all-terrain vehicle used by travelers and mercenary gunhands. The ATV rolled to a stop next to them.

Blunt killed the engine and hopped out, "There ya go! One, top-of-the-line four wheeler for your travels."

Simon nodded to the armorer, "Roman, here's your ride. I hope to see you back here before we de-base, but if not, see you at The City."

Roman waved his hand to the other troopers to climb aboard, Dice taking the driver's seat. The greyhound saluted his sergeant major and climbed aboard himself. Six dog-boys was a very tight fit. One trooper always occupied the roof-mounted gun and another had to ride uncomfortably on the rear fender crammed between the packs, a scarf wrapped tightly around his muzzle, goggles pulled down over his eyes. The others rode inside and pointed their rifles out of the widows.

"Roman," Nix said, leaning his head in the widow, "bring them back here. Alive if you can."

"Sir," the greyhound nodded.

~ O ~

Nix stood at the gate watching them drive east, following the hard-packed dirt trails which lead to Lone Star City. After they had left eyesight he scuffed the dirt with his boot a few times. He was worried about Roman, and if he was honest with himself, he felt a little raw-done that his favorite dog boy, and friend, was not with him on his birthday. Not that he never really liked birthdays. Especially his own. But nonetheless, over the years he'd gotten used to Roman's quiet congratulations on completing another year and the small, privately delivered gifts. After indulging in a few moments of self-pity he did an about-face, and returned to his duties.

Outwith the Coalition operated or approved farms, cattle ranches, and small towns, the lands themselves were wild plains of foot high grass and light forests. Regularly patrolled by air and ground units out of Lone Star City, Skelray, and Amarillo the Northern Quadrant was one of relative peace and quiet. For forty years the masters of the Coalition have been encouraging citizens to settle in Lone Star. To any citizen-family willing to settle in the hinterlands, the Coalition would offer them one hundred acres of land, assistance with building their homestead and land clearance (usually in the form of the Coalition military), a laser rifle for every adult in the family to defend their lands, seeds to plant corps or a bull and dozen cows to raise a herd, and access to penal laborers. Though many thousands have come, and hundreds more arrived every year, the vast Northern Quadrant was sparely and lightly populated.

The six Longhunters travelled virtually unmolested. As they went they exchanged coded radio communication with nearby Coalition Comm-towers or fly-by squadrons of SAMAS or Sky Cycles. These regular check-ins allowed their information to be passed into the greater Lone Star operational information grid, letting the captains and colonels know who was doing what in their sectors.

Having left Fort Wash late in the day, they camped at the foot of a radio tower on the first night. The soldiers there, while not unpleasant, had little time for the six dog boys and left them to their own devices. It was a cold, quiet night for the six as they huddled around a small fire and chatted lightly. The following morning they woke early, shook the morning frost from their bedrolls and were gone quickly, traveling east just as the sun crested the horizon. By mid-morning they had reached the major transportation artery between Amarillo and Lone Star City, the long, dusty black-top of 'Interstate 27' – an infrastructural remnant of an age before the Apocalypse. They turned and raced southwards. They regularly saw other vehicles on the highway, both civilian and military alike.

Right at noon a squad of four Sky Cycles roared low overhead and circled the Big Boss twice. Roman pushed his sunglasses up onto his forehead as he watched them circling. The AFC-023 Sky Cycle was a small, but fearsome one man, high-speed aircraft. Not much bigger then a large motorcycle, they had a tight turning radius and a rapid rate of climb. The hovercycle was designed as an urban assault craft, darting between buildings and trees, getting where larger airborne vehicles could not. A death-head motif was mounted on front prow - when they made their destructive, sweeping passes at hundreds of miles per hour it was like staring death in the face. Roman had always liked the Sky Cycle. Quick, spritely and agile, they packed a punch too, with their lasers and mini-missile pods. In his spare time he had even completed an introductory certification course in operating and handling the hovercycle. He'd logged twenty-three flight hours. Twenty-three of the best hours of his life. He needed another seventy-seven to get his pilots qualification. Though even if he ever completed the training process, he would never have asked for a transfer to an Aviation Unit, it just wasn't his place to request such things.

Roman picked up the radio mic, waiting for them to signal him. The radio buzzed for a long moment then crackled, "Civilian vehicle, slow down and state name and purpose?"

"Wash Roller, repeat, Wash Roller. Authorization code zero-five-eight-two," Roman spoke into the hand-set, eyes looking up and out of the windshield.

"Standby Wash Roller," the radio-voice replied. After a few moments the radio crackled again, "Authorization confirmed, Roller. Be aware an armor convoy is inbound, you'll need to get off the road, ETA ten minutes."

"I hear you. Heavies inbound, clear route."

"You got it. Await confirmation to continue route."

"Yes, sir. Wash Roller out."

Roman looked at Dice, nodded his head, and said, "Off the road." The sound of the road under the wheels changed from a smooth whirring to a harsh grinding of sand and gravel as Dice rolled off the black-top. The Big Boss came to a gentle stop and Roman said to the others, "Take a piss, grab a bit to eat, whatever, we're waiting here for a bit. Bitch-Boy has watch."

The dog-boys spilled out of the Big Boss, except Rain who manned the turret, and stood staring at the great empty expanse around them. Roman stretched his arms and legs and leaned against the door. As the others urinated or ate ration-bars, he looked his team over. They were a hardened lot, even by the grim standards of Fort Wash.

Dice, a half-wolf, was particularly cruel looking. Raw-boned with beady-eyes he had an unpleasant reputation; a domineering beast with a liking for torture. Though cunning and able, he had never made it to leadership ranks because the other Dog-Boys did not trust him.

Rain, the most experienced Feral-tracker sat in the turret. He was bitter, made that way by a lifetime of mockery due to his breed. He was a rare male poodle, a breed not bred much and typified as feminine in human culture. As if to highlight the fact, he served in Bluebird's team and was one of her favorites. The others in the company demandingly called him 'Bitch-Boy' and rarely a week went by that he was not threatened to be mated with. He'd developed a hatred of his own kind, and whenever possible he took it out on Ferals.

Riding in a rear seat was Fable, a red-and-white border collie. He had always been the rowdy sort, loud and prone to fighting. However, after he spent three years in a non-human work camp for stabbing to death another dog-boy, he became a different creature, quiet and cunning. He was one of the few who regularly associated with Dice.

The other rear seat was occupied by Korbal, a quiet, red-coated setter. He was relatively new to the company having transferred in less than a year ago. Previously, he had served with a unit in the Magic Zone. He never spoke about the things he saw there, but his willingness to kill supernatural creatures spoke volumes of the hurt they had caused him.

The dog-boy who rode on the rear fender was a big mastiff named Hippo. He was not very bright and made no pretense about his intelligence, but he was strong and would do anything he was order without question. Anything.

~ O ~

"Check it out!" shouted Rain from above them and pointed south.

There was a growing dust cloud and a slight rumble underfoot. As the minutes passed, the vibration and sounds grew louder and louder as the convoy approached them. Heading north, the sixty-strong convoy was made up of battle tanks and armored personal carriers. Some of the mechanized infantry soldiers rode on the hulls of the vehicles, casting glances or waves at the Wash Troopers. It was a sight to behold, and the dog-boys stood in the whirling dust, barking and shouting encouragement as the matte-black armored units thundered on. Wherever they were headed was in for a world of a hurt.

The radio unit crackled in the Big Boss's cabin, "Wash Roller, Wash Roller. Route clear, you may resume. Good hunting, Dogs."

Roman replied back, "Copy that. Thank you, sir."

~ O ~

Before they arrived at Lone Star City proper they were met by a hovering Skull Patrol Car. The boxy hovercraft had been waiting for them and flashed its headlights at the Big Boss and waved for the Wash team to stop. An intelligence officer and member of the Mutant Animal Retrieval Unit jumped out, and took them to a nearby post. There Roman was properly briefed and informed what had happened. They were to travel further south to the Coalition base of Odessa and meet the regional officer in charge of retrieval, Sarplus. Odessa was a small fort-city of a few hundred Coalition soldiers tasked with watching the southwestern area of Lone Star, several hundred miles away. Before Roman could mention his concerns about travelling to Odessa, the officer said there was an armored troop headed there in two days time and that they were to travel with them. This relieved Roman to no end. The lands of the Llano Estacado between the two cities were not always the safest. Furthermore, the officer had said, they were to meet Citizen Oswald Banker, a powerful cattle merchant outside of Odessa. It was from his estate the dog-boys had escaped.

~ O ~

Traveling in the convoy was slower than traveling alone and according to Dice 'damned-boring' but there was the added benefit of protection - a full mechanized infantry company of twenty Mark V APCs with an attached armor element of ten Spider Skull Walkers. The Walkers were towering, terrifying assault robots. The two pilots sat in the main body of the unit, which was a huge skull-shaped compartment. Thirty feet tall, the skull/body sat on a complicated gyro motor to which were attached six multi-jointed legs. This gave the robot its spider like appearance and hence its name. Those long legs allowed it to travel virtually anywhere unhindered.

A communication array mounted at the rear of the skull gave it the look of having a bad hair-day. Two huge cannons mounted on the sides of the skull were its main weapons. Only once did those big guns come into play. A tribe of Simvan riders on a dozen huge Ostrosaurus thought to make a pass at the convoy. Once spotted, the Skull-Walkers clinked ahead of the armored personal carriers and lamed or disabled the huge, alien dinosaur-beasts with their big rail guns. When the warm-blooded, lizard like Simvan were left without mounts they were easy pickings for the smaller armaments on the Walkers and the heavily armed Mark V's. The Simvans had overestimated themselves and were routed for their aggressive arrogance. The field alongside the highway was littered with D-bee dead.

After the battle the dinosaur-beasts were finished off by the Skull-Walkers. Using their six spear-like legs, they scaled up the huge, moaning, writhing Ostrosaurus, coming to stand on top of them. Angling downwards, they applied point-black cannon shots to the back of their bestial heads. The infantry cheered and clapped, encouraging the robot's gunners. When they were finished executing the beasts, red gore blanked the field for hundreds of square feet.

Roman and his team moved forward to attack, but in the end did not even fire a shot. They were however, ordered by the Walker commander to pile the dead and burn the corpses, while the robots scoured the area for more hostiles, and the infantry company rested in the warm sun. It was an unpleasant task that left them all in a foul mood, except Hippo, who was just happy to help.

~ O ~

Odessa was both a military base and a military city. With a population of a few thousand, it was larger the many other cities in Lone Star and per capita better armed than almost any other city in the Coalition States. Nearly everyone was in the military, was ex-military, paramilitary, or part of the military infrastructure. Odessa was also a busy place. The Coalition was gearing up for a major move against the Pecos bandits to the south, and the Coalition War Machine ground forward relentlessly. Dozens of vehicles and giant robots drove and stomped around the city. Flyers buzzed overhead, practicing maneuvers. The beetle black armor of the soldiers running hinter and yon made the city look like a giant, angry, ant hill.

In a field outside of town, Roman and the team saw hundreds of seven foot tall matte-black skeleton-like robots. Eerily, they stood in perfect formation and were completely still. Each held a laser rifle in its right hand. Dozens of technical officers sat at portable computers or ran amongst the robots, shouting techno-jargon at one another. Roman saw a tech polishing one robot's thorn-crowned head.

Little did they know they were watching the beginnings of the first use of the Fully Automated Self-Sufficient Assault Robot – the soon to become infamous Skelebot – in Lone Star. The Skelebot had already been used with success in Chi-Town (where they were first created) and Iron Heart (where they were first field tested) and were being rolled out across the States as supernatural hunter-killers and search and destroy units. They were intended to be sent into extremely dangerous territories where the loss of human life would be too high. Fully automated and nuclear-powered, they tirelessly patrolled and destroyed based on complex, yet limited, series of combat computer protocols. In the years to come they would prove their worth, becoming one of the great symbols of terror associated with the Coalition States, and in future wars they would also prove just how worthless a non-thinking machine could be.

Parking the Big Boss and the team at eatery, it took Roman the better part of a day to find Lieutenant Sarplus. His unit was quartered in a series of buildings on the west side of town. The officer was busy and briskly gave Roman the details of what had happened. The Ferals were named Century and Thersa. Century was a dog boy trooper in the 69th Dog-Pack Company stationed at Odessa. Thersa was a non-military psi-hounded acquired by Oswald Banker. They had met when Century and his squad were posted for six months at a small base on Banker's vast estate. The troopers patrolled the nearby forests, watched over the cattle herds and often had to interact with Banker's staff. After Century and Tesla had met they, apparently, fell in love. They mated without consent and after she had become pregnant, they fled together. Initially, a squad of dog-boys from Century's own company was sent after them, but they failed to report-in after a month and were later found dead and decomposed in a ravine some months later. A second hunting party was dispatched from Odessa, only to be commandeered almost immediately by an assault force headed to the Bend region. Sarplus was frustrated by that, but he became truly incensed when a third team was taken away from him to hunt monsters on the shores of the Pecos River.

It had been nearly two years since the psi-hounds had first run away and the latest report positively identified them in Los Alamos, a town near the border of the Pecos badlands. He knew this was his last chance to capture them before they disappeared into the chaotic, lawless Pecos Empire. Afraid of losing assets to other commanders, he secretly contacted the head of retrieval at Lone State and within a week received a unit outwith the regional command, and therefore totally his to control. Roman's team.

~ O ~

Sarplus gave Roman directions to the Banker's estate and called ahead so they knew a team was on their way. It was late in the day when Roman and his team drove up to the gated house. The manor was large and white. The air smelled of cattle and dung. "Wait here," he told the others. He walked to the gate and rang the entry panel. A voice popped, "Yes?"

"Corporal Roman to see Mister Banker."

"You are expected, enter."

The Gate slide open a few feet and Roman walked through. He glanced around, taking note of the well laid out lawns and gardens. The row of citrus trees along the far wall. The house itself was two-stories and white-washed. Two large pillars dominated the front entrance. Roman saw a man walk out of the house and toward him, he moved to meet him.

The man wore his armor and weapons openly, and looked past Roman when they reached each other.

"Corporal Roman?"

"That's me."

"Ah…" the man stuttered, "I wasn't expecting a Dog. Follow me"

Roman was led into the house, to a front room where he was told wait. Roman passed the time by listening to the _tick-tock_ing of the clock on the mantel. Time ticked away and he heard someone approaching. When he looked around he saw a psi-hound carrying a tray of glasses to him. The vizsla was clothed in a fine cut white suit, a green tie around his neck. A little gold pin of two crossed roses was on his lapel. He held himself with a stiff formality and offered him a drink in a low voice. Roman declined and suddenly felt self-conscious. The vizsla was well presented and clean, Roman hadn't even checked his backside for dirt when he sat down on the sofa. At least he had left his rifle behind.

Roman had heard that some dog-boys did not go into military service, but were acquired by citizens to serve them as their personal staff. On one occasion Nix had expressed his dislike for using dog-boys as simple house-help or servants, said it was a waste of resources, "Its damned criminal I tell you! Dog-boys are for tearing up Man's enemies, not making some weak-limbed techno-crat's bed or wiping their flabby, useless asses! You could get a 'burb waster to do that sort of menial work, we all know they'll never be useful for anything else."

Roman had never met a dog-boy who was not in the armed forces before. This was his first encounter with a Domestic and he suddenly felt the need to dominate this psi-hound. He stood up abruptly and faced the Domestic, lips pulled back slightly. Roman towered over the other psi-hound, but the vizsla did not back away. Roman pushed his face right into the domestic's and snarled, "What's your name, Domestic?"

"Germain, sir," he replied nonplussed.

"What do you do here?"

"I am a houseman to Mister Banker, sir."

"House … _Man_?" Roman felt his fists tighten.

"That's right, sir, I look after the house," Germain said. He tilted his head slightly, "What do you do, serve in the army? That makes you a big _dog_, doesn't it," he said arrogantly, raising an eyebrow slightly.

Roman snarled and grabbed Germain by the collar with both hands, "I'll kill you for speakin' to me like that," he growled dangerously.

"Stand down!" a shout roared out.

Roman instantly obeyed. He let go of Germain and snapped to parade-ground attention.

"Germain, don't harass my guests," Oswald Banker said as he strode into the room, "and you Corporal, don't assault my staff."

"Sir!"

"You're here to investigate the runaways?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good! It's an embarrassment that they haven't been caught yet, you know that. Two years worth of embarrassment for me, and I'm not the sort of man who appreciates being embarrassed, you understand me?" Banker drawled.

"Yes sir."

"You gonna get those damned runaways?"

"Yes sir, or die trying."

"Good. Here's what I know."

~ O ~

As they drove away from the house Roman thought about the difference he saw in the dog-boys with him. These dog-boys were a tough lot. So very different from the Domestic he had just encountered. They did not know how to serve drinks or lay out a formal dining tables. They laid down covering fire and served death. They wore three types of uniforms; formal blacks for when on parade, field blacks when off duty, or their combat armor. Most chose to wear their armor almost exclusively. They never wore suits. Or ties. They were not house pets. They were trained killers, violent and aggressive. They were attack dogs.

And he was proud to be one.


	9. Epilogue Simon's Birthday

**Epilogue**

**Simon's Story**

**~ O ~**

Simon Nix was born in a small forest village of Redmill outside of the City of Iron, in Ironheart. He was the oldest of six kids, two boys and four girls. His father, Petre, was a woodsman. He was a big man; big shoulders, big hands, big laugh, big brown beard. Pappa's heartfelt laugh was enough to make them smile and giggle. His mother, Bella, was a small woman, delicate even. She was the daughter of a technocrat professor of metallurgy at the University of Iron Heart, he disowned her when she found, fell in love with, and married Petre. They didn't have much, but they were happy.

Simon loved and idolized his father, he took to helping him in his tasks as soon as he could wield an axe, or rather a small hatchet, without injuring himself. He was aged seven. Harvesting was done in three stages, deepwood work where they chopped down the trees; transport, where they hauled the trees to the village mill; and clearance; where the trees were cleared of bark and branches and cut down to size. He learned to strip trees and to cut up the lumber debris into usable/sellable bits. While they didn't have much in terms of material processions, Pappa Petre was successful in his way and they never wanted for food or warmth. By age eleven Simon was already a hefty boy, pleased to be taking after his father. Years of swinging axes had given Simon large muscles and hard hands. Hauling lumber strengthened his legs and endurance. His father was the village boxing champion, and taught all his children - Simon, the girls; Mira, Tona, Bella, Celeste, and the youngest a bright haired boy named Gilly - how to defend themselves.

Each night, no matter how tired or exhausted Petre was, with his kids he did push-ups, sit-ups, and jumping-jacks, which more often than not it turned into an impromptu family dance party. The children thought it was a fun family game, but Petre knew better. The world has a hard, deadly place – and took the weak quickly. Only the strong had a chance at life.

And sometimes not even then.

One afternoon Petre and half other men of the village didn't return from the woods. The local enforcers were called, they investigated. No bodies were ever found – only empty vehicles and broken bits of tools. When word of the tragedy reached the neighboring villages, condolences and sympathy were sent. Then those same neighbors sent round the hard-men. Those men brought beatings, vandalization and finally murder. In a matter of weeks, nearly every family was driven out of the village with only what they could carry on their backs.

Belle and her brood took to the 'burbs of the City of Iron. A grim, dirty, violent place where life was cheap, everything else wasn't. Above them towering more than a thousand feet into the smug filled sky was the fortress-city, the true beating heart of Iron Heart. Her father lived near the top of the gigantic trapezoid, level thirty-four, with all the wealth and respect he was due. She took her family to the great fortress-city, somehow managed to beg entry and eventually navigate her way to her father's home. Simon's grandfather was as cold and hard as the metal he studied. He beat his mother and him when he stepped up to defend her. The grandfather had them thrown out the city, and band from ever entering again.

Bella was beaten but far from broken. She took her brood and found a shack to inhabit. She did what she could to raise money. She sewed through the night and during the day worked in a tuck-shop, selling near worthless trinkets and near rotten vegetables. However, she was one of a tiny minority of people who could read and write, a gift from the man who just disowned her. She had taught all her children, even though Pappa Petre frowned and warned it'd cause trouble. She sold her skills as a teacher to bring in food and clothing and a few credits. She had to be careful. While literacy was not illegal, per say, it was seriously frowned upon by the government, and many literate people simply disappeared during the night.

They had survived their first winter in the 'burbs. It was a hard time. Cold and fear and death were all around them. The children hadn't ever known cold as they did that first winter. All seven of them slept in one bed, more of a nest on the floor, to stay warm. It was the first warm spring evening and it was Simon's twelve birthday. His mother had somehow found the ingredients to make him a chocolate cake. He had never had chocolate before.

As the family sat on the floor of the shack, surrounding the gloriously brown circle, the room lit with candles, a large red candle stuck in the middle of the cake. Smiles and giggles filled the room. The family sang Simon the tradition birthday song. Before they had finished the happy tune a harsh rumbling sound came from outside. Moments later the door was smashed in and dark-armored figures stormed in, kicking and shoving the children out of the way. The darkmen stomped on the chocolate birthday cake, unknowingly, uncaringly, obliterating it.

Belle was dragged out into the night, never to be seen from again.

Simon ran hard after the truck, only to be left in a cloud of dust. He roared. Then he cried. Then he wondered.

** ~ O ~**

The night was dark and thick when he found himself in a disused loading bay. Dozens of people clapped and called out. Simon saw two nearly naked young boys, not much other then himself, fighting. Then were covered in scratches and pulled at each other faces and sweaty arms. The crowd was older teenagers or adults, grim men, with gaunt faces and dull, hopeless eyes. Desperate folk.

One of the boys pushed the other to ground and kicked him in the groin. The downed boy wailed and rolled into a ball. The other boy kicked the prone boy for more than a minute.

A man walked up to the kicking boy, shoving him back and fussed over the downed boy. He helped the boy to his knees then carried him away in his arms. Another man, wearing a dark red leather coat walked up to the standing boy, grabbed his wrist and held his arm in the air. Half the crowd roared, half moaned. Money and threats exchanged hands.

The red coated man asked if there were any other takers, would anyone fight one of _Duke's_ _Boys_? Without knowing why Simon said he'd fight the boy. Duke, the man in the red coat, asked him who his handler was, Simon said he didn't have one. Duke laughed. Said he'd be his handler, for which Simon would have to give him half his winnings … if he won. Simon agreed, not knowing any better. Duke asked the crowd if they wanted to make it interesting, he asked if they wanted a death-match. The crowd cheered their answer.

Simon was ordered to strip to his unders, then Duke asked if he understood he had to kill the other kid to win. The other kid was stick-thin with dead eyes. Simon nodded. Duke clapped his hand and shouted at them. It all happened so quickly. In a flurry of fists and blinding punches Simon knuckled the skinny boy to the ground, climbed onto his chest, and beat his face until there was nothing left to indentify the child.

That was the first time he killed someone.

Duke paid Simon his share of the money, slapped him on his back, told him he did a good job and to come back here if wanted to fight again. Simon didn't bother to collect his clothes, he just ran away crying.

When he got home, he gave the credits to Mira and washed his busted lip and torn knuckles, and slept for two days.

Mira made the money last a week, than the food ran out. Simon had told Mira want he had done. She never asked him to go back and try to win more money, she didn't need to. Simon went on his own accord.

He found Duke again a few nights later. He asked to fight. Duke said no. Fighting in a one-off was fine, but if Simon wanted to fight for real, he needed a handler. Simon asked Duke if he'd be his handler. Duke smiled slyly, he had seen Simon fight. The kid was a born brawler.

That night, Duke pitted Simon against two large, starving dogs. Killing the two dogs won him even more money. Simon made to limp home, his arms and legs riddled with bite marks, when Duke placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head. He was one of the Duke's boys now. Simon had to return to his fighters stable. Simon begged Duke, telling him of his family, asking if they could come too. Duke smiled evilly, and told him they would join him tomorrow. Simon was unsure, he had never spent a night away from his family before, but he had little choice now – he was in a world bigger than his whole understanding.

Much to Simon's surprise, his sibling did arrive the next morning at _Duke's Home for Wayward Children, _part orphanage, part sweat-shop, part brothel, part underground fighting club. They were terrified, and seeing Simon wrapped in bandages did nothing to make them feel better. It took the best part of the day to convince them. He showed them the apartment Mr. Duke had given him, large enough for all of them, two bedrooms even! Simon had to have one to himself, the smaller one, he explained, he was the adult of the family now. He had to look after them. It was a real privilege he claimed, living outwith the _Home_. He would pay rent to Mr. Duke, out of the money he earned from fighting. The thought of lose or death never entered his young mind.

**~ O ~**

Duke was right about Simon. The young boy was a gifted fighter and fearless. Three years went by, with Simon becoming bigger and stronger and deadlier and more merciless. By the time he was fifteen he had killed thirty-seven other kids and dozens of animals. He was Duke's second most prized fighter. The number one boy, two years older than himself, was a tattooed killer named Shem Vimmer, a teenager nearing the end of his days as a child-fighter. They were friends of a sorts. The fighting and pressure and horrible acts he committed forced a distance between him and his siblings; his odd friendship with Shem meant much to him as a result.

After one particularly successful night; Simon's unexpected victory over Grittown's underage champion, won Duke a great sum of money and favors. His handler gave Simon rewards. A bottle of clear synth-liquor and a reward-girl for the night – a girl named Borra. He didn't know what to do with either.

Borra showed him what to do. They got blind drunk and Simon had his first experience with the opposite sex.

During the night Simon staggered to the toilet, vomited horribly, and passed out on the cold floor. He woke, only semi-aware, and walked out into the lounge, there he saw shadows moving. His drink fogged mind struggled to make sense of the scene before him … a man … was raping his sister. He took two steps, grabbed the man by the neck, twisted him round and smashed his head on the floor. The body went instantly limp in his hands, he continued to smash and smash and smash. He felt someone grab his arm, pulling at him. Someone was shouting, he whipped his hand backwards and a figure flow across the room.

A lamp was suddenly lit, young Gilly stood in the doorway of the second bedroom. Mira naked and bleeding from the face lay crumpled in the corner of the room. Shem lay on the ground, his skull leaking brain fluid and blood.

Simon rose, his knees buckled and he collapsed on to the floor.

Mira crawled to Shem, whispering, begging him to be alright. When she touched his motionless body she roared at Simon. He was her boyfriend, they were going to get out here, they were going to have a life together.

Simon rose again, seemingly not hearing a word Mira had say or recalling what he had just done, and stumbled his way to his room.

The following morning Mira and Shem were gone. Gilly explained what had happened. Simon was terrified. They all were. Borra, the reward-girl, having slept through the night, woke late and wondered why everyone was in such a dire mood.

Simon went to see Mr. Duke late that afternoon. Duke already knew what had happened and he could have come round to Simon's little apartment, but instead, he made Simon come to him. To beg. Duke liked to dictate terms from a position of power. From that point onwards Simon had lost all stock with Duke.

Duke nodded thoughtfully as Simon explained what had happened. Then he invited Mira in. Her hands were still red with Shem's blood. She wouldn't meet her brother's eyes. Duke told them both the cost of killing one of his boys was death – Simon's death. But, as Shem had been Mira's lover at the time of his death, Duke would allow her to choose the appropriate punishment.

Death was too much for her to handle. She asked for the next most severe punishment, _Barking the Tree_, they called it, she agreed to it without even asking that it be explained to her.

It was a horrific punishment. Simon would be stripped naked, his hands tied above his head and his feet shackled to floor, making a vulnerable **X** with his arms and legs. Then every boy in Duke's fighting stable would be given a stiff lash and allowed to strike him ten times. That amounted to over three-hundred lashes. To most adults it was tantamount to a death sentence, to a fifteen year old, it was cruel beyond measure.

In her petty adolescent spite she didn't realize what she had done until everyone had gathered; Duke, the trainers, the child-fighters, the hangers-on, and Simon's siblings. The children-fighters jockeyed for position. Shem had been popular and a mentor to most of them, and they wanted some vengeance. The lash was given to a boy and he skipped excitedly over to Simon.

At the first lash Simon laughed.

At the fifth lash he grunted.

At seventeen lashes Simon cried out, swearing profanely.

At twenty-nine he began to rant.

At thirty-two he begged Mira to forgive him. She screamed her forgiveness.

At forty-four he cried out for his father to give him strength.

At sixty-two he begged for his mother, crying freely now.

At seventy-seven he passed out. Duke had his doctor wake him with smelling salts.

At eighty-five he passed out again. Duke had the doctor inject him with adrenaline and a cocktail of pharmaceuticals to keep him conscience.

At ninety-nine he lost control of his bowels and pissed and shat himself. They laughed at him. Someone scooped up a pile and rubbed it all over his face and forced it into his mouth. He vomited.

At one-hundred-and-one through to one-hundred-and-ten, a particularly nasty boy whipped his genitals with a crazed viciousness.

At one-hundred-and-eighty Simon began to sing the birthday song, dozens and dozens of time.

At two-hundred-and-four his body when into seizure and thrashed violently. The doctor gave him a powerful sedative. His body went limp. After a few minutes he gave Simon another dose of a drug to keep him awake against the self-preservation will of his mind.

At two-hundred-and-five Simon took to singing the birthday song again, this time his family sang it with him.

At two-hundred-and-sixty-one he fell silent, hung his head low.

At three-hundred-and-ten he was lashed for the final time.

**~ O ~**

They undid the ties and shackles and much to everyone's surprise, hunched over like a crippled old man, he remained standing. He shook and shivered and bled. His entire body had been beaten raw. He looked like bloody groundmeat given the shape of man. The bleeding child-mass shuffled slowly to Duke, taking mere inches per step and stood in front of him. The child-fighters muttered to themselves, stepping back, awed by his seemingly indestructible nature.

Duke stared at him for a long time, confused, than waved his hand dismissing him home. He shuffled off. His siblings tried to help him, but he howled horribly if they touched him. It took him hours to walk the few hundred feet to his apartment.

Mira didn't know what to do, so she ran the bath with warm water. Simon climbed in, hissing like an angry snake as he lowered himself into the water. Once he was in, he slipped into unconsciousness and the water quickly turning red.

He would have died if it hadn't been for the love of his mournful sister. He took care of him for two weeks. She found a discredited medic who patched up the worst of his wounds and would look in on him from him to time. She found drugs to ease his pain, sang him sounds when the drugs ran out and he began cry from the pain. She found balms and creams to wash his wounds. She nursed him back to health.

A month after the whipping Duke came to his apartment. Simon was in the bath, though his wounds were healed and freshly pink, he was still a broken child. He walked with a stoop, a crane, and a pained expression. Duke told him he had to fight tomorrow. None of his fighters got to take a month off. They all had to fight. He'd fight or he'd kick them all out onto the street.

When Duke left he talked it over with Mira, he couldn't fight, he'd be killed. They would be kicked out without him, regardless. Duke's cruelty seemed to know no bounds. Mira kissed him on the forehead and told him to trust her. Later that day she left with eleven year old Celeste in tow.

Waking the following morning Simon struggled to get his clothes on, even with Gilly's help. As he made to leave the house, Mira press a small bottle into his hand and told him to drink it. She told him it would help, it was _Juice_. Juice was the street name for an expensive designer drug, a powerful stimulant cocktail that made the user powerful beyond belief and without pain or fear. It was considered illegal in child-fighting circuit.

He said he wouldn't take it unless she told him where he she got it. She hesitated, then told him. Dr. Fellows, a truly villainous cyber-doc in the local 'burb had a liking for young girls. When Mira told the other siblings what Duke had said, the trouble they were in, and told them she needed to get juicer drugs for Simon, Celeste volunteered herself to go to Fellows place.

Simon hugged and kissed his sisters, little Celeste held herself with no shame and a great dignity; their willingness to survive at all costs was overwhelming.

He drank the bottle empty.

**~ O ~**

Simon returned from the fight hours later, his arms red to the elbows, madness raced behind his eyes. He was covered in wounds. He never spoke of that fight; the only one wouldn't ever speak about. He closed himself into his bedroom and rampaged, destroying everything. When the drug wore off he collapsed.

**~ O ~**

Two years went by, and Simon never regained the good grace of Duke, though he continued to earn his handler great sums of money and favors. His fights became more violent as Duke tried everything he could think of to kill the boy. At seventeen, he was already bigger then man-size, towering over Duke. He had an aura menace and violence. Over the years several of the Duke's boys had died under mysterious circumstance, and many whispered it was Simon getting his revenge.

One afternoon he walked into Duke's office and told the old man that he was done fighting. He wanted to return to his village and following his father's footsteps, he wanted some money for his troubles. Duke frowned, but paid him a small sum. He told Simon he didn't like him anyways and besides, he was coming to the end of his child-fighting days. In Duke's mind the boy had a curse, the killing curse, he was glad to be rid of him.

**~ O ~**

They returned to Redmill. Mira and the girls opened a sewing shop. Gilly took up work as an apprentice woodsman. Simon did the same for a while, but he was restless and angry. He got into fights. After talking it over with his sister, telling her he was going to kill someone, or himself, if he didn't leave Redmill. Though it saddened her more deeply the Simon would ever knew, she agreed with his suggestion of joining the Coalition Army. Less than a week later he walked out of Redmill and it would be nearly two decade before he returned there.


End file.
